All Dressed Up With No Place To Go (Version Two)
by DianaLecter
Summary: It's over. Yahoo!!!
1. Going Home

Author's Note:  Because of a contrast of opinions on the Visionary boards, I have decided to split this series (as it is a choose your own adventure, with various options).  In order to salvage any confusion here, I think it might be easier to simply have both options as straight stories.  Note:  This version of 'All Dressed Up' is different than the one already posted on this site (the first chapters are similar…the break at chapter 5 is where the stories begin to differ.)  My advanced apologies for any confusion.  And thanks.

                                                                             -DL

The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris.  They are being used as tribute and not for the gain of profit.  No copyright infringement is intended.

~~~

The darkness that greeted her as the Mustang boomed into the driveway made her scowl with discontent. It wasn't to say that she expected the house to radiate in a flamboyant show of lights to see her return for the evening, but for the third consecutive night that week, Clarice Starling grumbled about her forgetfulness in not leaving a light on. In any retrospect, it was distinctively more pleasant to be received by at least some show of warmth and compassion than the cold reality that surrounded her every day. 

It might have struck her as odd to experience such a strong repellence to darkness, but she was coming to understand that numerous encounters with a mad psychiatrist scarred her with the ability to diagnose odd behavioral turns. Of course, if the doctor himself were here, he would jump to analyze this newfound paranoia with a childhood trauma she undoubtedly covered in the many years it has taken to heal. 

The thought gave Starling reason to snicker at herself as she slid out of the driver's seat, precariously locking the car and slamming the door shut. With a heavy sigh, she turned her eyes to the house ahead of her, wishing, not for the first time, that the duplex beside hers was not vacant. When Ardelia Mapp moved out a little over a year ago, she had not foreseen missing her roommate with such vigor. Others had since come and gone, never staying long enough to develop lasting friendships, none ever bothering. 

Over the course of the past year, Starling shielded her displeasure with empty reassurance that she needed this seclusion. It was a smooth cover. After all, with the way the media jumped down her throat at every turn, it was nice to have privacy to turn to at the end of a day. 

Smooth cover. Right. 

In truth, Starling hated returning to an empty home perhaps even more than she hated going to work. It did little more than remind her how irreversibly complex her life was, and while she never expected anything to be a walk in the park, it was supposed to be easier than this. 

Subtle reminders everywhere she went. How now brown cow. How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile, on every golden scale. How cheer... how cheer... … How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws. And welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws. 

Where had she heard that before? It didn't matter. 

Yes, yes. It was *supposed* to be easier than this. It was *supposed* to be a lot of things. 

But it wasn't. While she knew nothing ever was, it was a reality she preferred not to believe. At least during the day, she could occupy her mind with busywork that took her far from the events of the past few months. In returning to a job she loathed, Starling found it quite opportune to fill her day by inwardly jesting at those who irritated her. She suspected if she loved her job it would take little to distract her. Activities that required minimal talent or patience often left her with large gaps of unoccupied time, and she was susceptible to forbidden daydreams and drifting desires. 

As opposed to the Bureau that offered no free time, instead insisting on adding to the list. Building and building, piling and piling…over and over and over again. 

In the months since her last encounter with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the Bureau had done everything within its power to limit her voice without neatly snapping the line that managed to keep her in association with their all-powerful name. If that meant a desk full of paperwork intended for a low secretarial position, she would receive it. In many ways, Starling assumed they were trying to scare her away, or, at the very least, bore her to death. While she felt sure it would be easiest to leave and get the inevitable process behind her, she was not the sort of woman to shy from challenge, especially since they pushed her to such lengths. When the truth was, she would not be here if it weren't for their blindness, insensitivity, unwillingness to understand. 

The darkness of her home was cold and overbearing. Starling regarded it with a sigh. What awaited her inside made her quiver with failed recognition. At very best, a board game, perhaps a sandwich but more probably a Chinese-take out number. While her days were inactive and dull, she still managed to return home with a familiar sense of fatigue, as though it took great energy to be bored all day. 

Now, beginning the pace to the front door, Starling wondered exactly what he would say about this. Over-analysis. With a grim smile, she could nearly hear his voice, the calm questioning in regards to a probable conclusion. 

("Were you ever afraid of the dark before, Clarice?") 

She shook her head and began fumbling for her keys. 

("Aren't we beyond lying to each other? Hmm? Think hard. Consider. Quid pro quo. I tell you things, you tell me things. Quid pro quo. Yes or no?") 

But there was nothing for him to betray. Take take take to his heart's content, but nothing to tell. After all, what question was worthy, now especially, of asking him? 

So she thought hard, and again reached the same answer. Though a smile bore her face, Starling could feel the inward stir of disgust layered in her stomach. What a way to spend an evening. A nonexistent conversation with a fugitive to answer a simple inquiry of her determent to darkness. With some struggle, her key found its way into the lock. 

("Oh really? Well, that is interesting. Even following your adventure into the Montana night, Clarice? You never experienced such dread when facing the dark again? In answering the screaming wail of the lambs?") 

She paused, drew in a breath, and looked around. No, he wasn't behind her, lurking in shadows or bushes. Starling stood there as alone as she was a minute before. When, granted her limited discussion with the doctor, had she grown to know him so well? 

That was simple enough. She never forgot a word he said, an insight he made, a look he portrayed. Not one. 

("Yes, I thought so.") 

Starling held herself still for a full ten seconds before allowing a humorless chuckle to escape her lips. Without further interruptions, even if they were internal, she pushed the door open and flipped on the interior light. Tender eyes blinked a few times in raw adjustment as the voice in her head returned mercilessly. 

("Shall we consider the situation, eh, Clarice? You feared the darkness as a child, after losing the lamb to the hands of the rancher. Years pass and while you still hear the screams of those you can't protect, you face the unknown without a blink. Until now.") 

Was it possible that he was just as insufferable, residing as Jiminy Cricket in her head as he was in the flesh? 

Jiminy Cricket. Hah. She had to chuckle at that. Imagining Dr. Lecter singing, 'If You Wish Upon A Star' was sadly entertaining. Sadly for the content - entertaining for she could picture it successfully. 

Yeah. Her life was a laugh riot. Hardy har har har. 

All right. The basics. She wasn't afraid of the darkness until she lost something to it, long ago, the night of screaming lambs. Now, through the tiresome years of recuperation, through the alleged image of her maturity, and here she was again. 

Over-achiever. Starling held her breath and rolled her eyes. This was stupid. 

("No, no, no, no. You were doing fine.") 

Releasing the breath awkwardly, she snickered at herself and shook her head. "Girl, you really know how to waste a Friday night," she complimented the dead air, wanting to fill the silence with the monotonous nature of her voice instead of allowing Dr. Lecter a chance. Even within her head, he was lethal and merciless, prodding every corner and angle for an answer to the most transverse questions. 

However, Starling was far too reserved to plug her ears and scream, "LA! LA! LA!" at the top of her lungs. Therefore, when she stopped speaking, there was little she could do as the doctor's voice returned. Taunting her, imploring her. 

("You lost *me* to the darkness recently, Clarice. Don't tell me you have forgotten so quickly.") 

Anger and frustration flustered within her for the reference, though she had no one present to aim it at, which aggravated her further. It was difficult justifying her irritation with Dr. Lecter's voice, especially considering he was nowhere near. 

Anywhere but here. 

Hell. She didn't blame him. 

How could she be angry with him over something she made him say in her subconscious? The very knowledge that he *would* say it, were he here, filled as an acceptable excuse. Fair? No. But whatever was these days? 

Stumbling through the living quarters, Starling struggled to find the light switches. She suddenly felt plastered, something that surprised her, more or less since she gave up hard drinking after sleeping through an important test in college. Tonight, she hadn't touched anything. Perhaps it was simply the affects of a bad evening. 

It didn't begin nor end there. Bad evening, bad day, bad week, bad month, bad year, bad ten years, and so on. The list would never end. 

Sighing dejectedly, Starling sank into her armchair, hand immediately rising to caress her brow. One evening, all like the rest. With each passing day, the end seemed closer. The end to what, she was unsure. However, whatever it carried with it, she sensed its approach, its proximity. A mighty hunter stalking its prey, waiting for the calm before pouncing. 

_("And now, the end is here. And so I face the final curtain. My friend, I'll say it clear. I'll state my case, of which I'm certain…") _

Starling rolled her eyes again and sat forward. If it wasn't one thing, it was the another. 

_("My high is low. I'm dressed up with no place to go. And all I know, is I'm at the start of a pretty big downer…") _

That made her chuckle slightly, and though she was not a fan of random songs running through her head, it was superior, at least for the sake of continued mental stability, than advice from a doctor that resided an undoubted ocean away. 

The functions of the human subconscious are not at all patterned, therefore it cannot be said, in reflecting Dr. Lecter's ambiguous whereabouts, why she recalled that she had neglected to pick up the mail outside. Growling to herself, Starling sat forward, half-tempted to simply leave it for tomorrow. She had no desire to abandon the comfort -- so-called, as it was -- of home. How was it that a day of boredom sapped her of more energy than any of those assignments she told herself she enjoyed when she was considered a technical field agent? Either life was slowing to meet her, or she was getting lazy. 

Perhaps life was lazily slowing to meet her. As it was, she didn't care to put too much thought into it. Instead, Starling fought to her feet, her muscles stretching heavily. Maybe it would be better to simply quit. Was the Bureau worth this? In growing up, she always learned to see to the end of all dedications. Having sacrificed more than a decade to an institution that clearly didn't care, she wondered if it was time to give in. 

Such thoughts were treacherous. In an instant, Starling felt herself pushed against a metaphorical wall for her blasphemous thoughts, a dunce cap fitting squarely on her head. How dare she consider quitting? 

"Starlings aren't quitters," the ghost of her father scolded. 

In another time, perhaps, she would have taken that to heart. Obeyed, lived, done everything within her power to make daddy happy. But there came a time where she no longer cared, where it was no longer worth the effort. "No, no we're not," Starling observed in reply, opening the door once more as her eyes landed on the mailbox, set against a forage of silhouettes. It seemed so far away, and her body screamed its fatigue in protest. Smoothly defying it, she stepped outside and began the journey up her lonely drive. "We're not quitters," she continued, "we just wish we could be." 

This was pitiful. In her prime, Starling reflected the ease at which she seized trophies for running marathons in preparation for the training courses at Quantico. She had ventured on assignments that required her to remain attentive and focused for well over forty-eight hours, only to report in the next day and turn to the exercise equipment before sleep ever became a priority. It didn't seem so long ago in many aspects, and reasonably, it shouldn't. After all, that was her definition before reacquainting herself with Dr. Lecter. The definition she allegedly portrayed now. It was hardly four months behind her. 

Four months. Just four months. And yet, Starling continued to have these personal one-on-one sessions with the cannibalistic fugitive in her mind. It was simple that way. The dialogue she craved in secret was obtained without any measure of loyalty betrayed to those she had sworn her allegiance with. Her coworkers. Her colleagues. Her friends. 

Bullshit. 

Query finally reached, Starling emitted another forlorn sigh as she opened the mailbox. It was far too dark to visibly make out its contents, but she saw something relative to her winning a grand sweepstakes and now being the heir to twenty five million dollars. She bristled her annoyance and ignored it, thumbing through the rest. 

Bill. Bill. Bill. How did one person accumulate this many bills without actively using her credit card? 

The last letter in the stack. Neither bill nor claim to wealth. She held her breath as her fingers delicately brushed the fine texture of the envelope, recognizing the fabric immediately. At that minute, time stilled for Special Agent Starling of the FBI as she delicately flipped the letter over to read the name standing proud on the front. 

An elegant, brush script that she knew too well, spelling out one word in familiar appreciation. 

She forgot she was holding her breath and released it hurriedly, producing a sound relative to a cry, though she wasn't sure if it was intentional. There was no question in her mind it was authentic -- doubting its origin was futile. Despite that, Starling shook her head in disbelief, not willing to grasp what she held very tangibly in her grasp. As she debated a sensible course of action, her astonishment soared, escalating to heights never before experienced until she emanated a heavy sigh. "This…this *can't* be happening," she decided, her thumb caressing the ink that spelled out her name proudly, boldly, in no attempt to disguise the identity of her correspondent. They were far beyond that, if they were ever there to begin with. "Again." 

*        *        *


	2. The Letter

It couldn't be happening, but it was.  

In her hands sat a very tangible letter, inside her house, a waiting fireplace.  Tomorrow, she would encounter a Bureau full of greedy, squabbling delegates, people determined to be the end of her, who would kill to glance at the sort of information she held.  Over and over again, her eyes traced the name, proud on the expense of the envelope.  One word.  Claaaarrrriiiiicceee.   It only took looking at it to hear his voice, and it was the only script she ever read that reflected any tone.  

There were many things that were only applicable when Dr. Lecter was concerned, but Starling preferred not to think about it.

So what was it to be?  If she opened it, she incriminated herself, if she burned it she would kill herself.  Should she turn it in…well...she wouldn't turn it in.  That option was safely ruled out of probability.  Despite her alleged position within the Bureau, she would never again willfully do anything to assist their hunt for him.  Not after all she had suffered, all she had endured.  

All right.  Read or burn it.

Starling growled her frustration, mimicked by the quietness surrounding her.  Silent curses tore at her vocals, things demanding to be released.  Wasn't this supposed to be behind her?  Recuperating from the lake house was enough.  What right did he have to contact her now?  Now that she was in the process – however tedious – of getting her life back together?

That was irrelevant and wrong.  She sighed her recognition, brief fury evaporating.  To deny her relief in seeing this was to deny the color of the sky.  The letter carried only her name – no address or return address.  He had delivered it in person.  Did that mean he was near at this moment?  Watching her?  Starling pursed her lips but didn't look around.  If he was watching her, she wasn't sure that she cared to *know* just yet.  One step at a time.

With another sigh, she looked back to her house, alight now with lamps, front door halfway open.  How was it that it still looked bleak to her, perhaps even more so than when she arrived home?

Then his voice was with her again.  Teasing.  Taunting.  

("Were you ever afraid of the dark before, Clarice?")

"There's a first time for everything," she muttered in response, eyes falling once more to the letter in her hand.  The envelope seemed to ignite, burning, grinding against her skin.  It begged to be opened.

The rest of her parcels were forgotten, abandoned in the mailbox.  In a flash, the outside world was unimportant, dreary, shut off to her.  It was only Starling and the letter.  Starling and her connection to him.  Hurriedly, anxious now, she bustled to the door, allowing no time for reconsideration; eager to shut out the sound of his voice speaking sentences she constructed and read the bona fide article.  After all, it was most obvious that she wouldn't be rid of him tonight – whichever way.

All that and more, she simply couldn't dispose of the letter without knowing what it said.

Reaching her door, Starling turned once more to the darkness, eyes dimming a bit.  She searched bluntly for a figure of his height, dancing eyes, anything to suggest he was outside.  Watching her.  However, she knew he had the intelligence to evacuate the proximity once his package was delivered.  There was that chance she would alert the authorities.  That option they both knew, well in advance, she wouldn't choose.  Not without reading its content first.

It was hardly orderly, but Starling was beyond following the manual.  

When her eyes registered the negative results, she sighed and nodded her acknowledgement to the shadows.  An inkling of irritation coursed through her once more.  This was so entirely typical of him.  Wait until she was settled before striking.  Allow her enough air to breathe the scent of normality, even if she hated the thought, before seizing it from her grasp.  Even if she did nothing about the letter, folded it away and forced it from her mind, there was that part of her, that very real part that would always know.  And despite all her accomplishments in the future, what she might regain in the Bureau, it would follow her forever.

Of course, that was a much broader allegation than a simple letter.  That was life in general.  Life constructed and based on that morning she went to interview him.  Where it all began and ended for her.

To the darkness, to him, should he be near, she whispered a defeated, "Well, I hope you're happy," before closing the door.

Once concealed inside her home, Starling had to bite her lip hard to refrain from tearing the envelope open.  She vowed to at least make it to her living room, where the fireplace was handy.  There was that chance he would infuriate her to the point of needing to cast his words into an inferno.  While she was no stranger to mockery, there was something about it coming from his mouth that made it much more difficult to face.  To own up to.  She wanted to say that was due to his record, that anyone *that* mad must really have a point if they found terrific flaw in her character.  But that wasn't it.  That wasn't even apart of it.  Through all her life, she had endured ridicule and condemnation, but she faced it, accepted it.  The only time it really burned was in standing before his cell those ten years ago, watching this person whom she had just met tear her down to a level that was so frighteningly close to the truth it was difficult to breathe.

His mockery was harsh because it struck close to home.  Because it was beyond name-calling and wild allegations.  

Exercising every nerve of restraint, Starling walked with unbelievable patience to the chair she had relaxed in just after returning home.  Before she remembered the mail awaited outside.  Before she was confronted with this issue.  With this reoccurring matter that just wouldn't die.

Once she found a comfortable position, she lost her patience.  Though careful to not rip the envelope more than necessary in preservation of the letter, she let out an aggravated growl as it battled with her, as all writings of importance do, wanting to remain in its sheathing to drive her to further lunacy.  

A thought arose in the midst of this, and she rolled her eyes at herself.

("You shouldn't touch it.  Forensics will never forgive you.")

"Fuck forensics," she spat.  "What have they done for me lately?"

He would love this.  Not a word had been read, and she was already protecting his freedom, even if she didn't realize it.  

Once the letter was free and in her grasp, Starling forced herself to calm, mildly ashamed at her eagerness.  With a slow breath, she leaned into the cushionary material of her chair, collected herself, and finally brought it to eyesight and began to read.

_You look well, Clarice, if you'll permit me to observe._

_Now, don't go about getting yourself worked up.  Rest assured I am most certainly out of the area.  In studying your current work patterns, I speculate you received this around eight o'clock, perhaps later.  So, if you felt so compelled, you can ease your guilt.  There is no need to send for the hunting dogs, or attention from your friends in the Bureau.  _

_With the risk of eluding a preamble, I will merely state there are several points I would like to highlight.  I believe we are beyond lengthy introductions and explanations.  Would you agree?  I think so._

_Washington is lovely this time of the year.  You can nearly smell conspiracy in the air.  I suppose you're tolerant to its taste now, aren't you?  You coat your lungs with it every day.  I admit some time has passed, but not much.  A few months does not constitute in adequate passing for two old friends whom had not seen each other in a decade.  Not the way it used it, anyway.  Rumors come and go, Clarice.  We've had our share._

_As I predicted, people returned to their original hypothesis.  The one I mentioned in Memphis all that time ago.  Do you remember, Clarice?  People will say we're in love.  Why, they ask, did she let the monster get away?  Why didn't she seize her waiting firearm upstairs instead of trusting her abilities in a rather objectionable snow-shaker?  You've heard it all, though.  I regret to inform you I was not in the proximity during the time of your strenuous questioning, though I did catch as much as I could through the convenience of headlines and various news programs.  You looked fetching, Clarice, though the camera hardly does you justice._

_Your morals betrayed you.  In questioning your reason, the answer you have relied on since its awakening to your conscious no longer has merit.  While I find it admirable that you have a fetish of saving any creature from torture, as well as beyond grateful, it didn't and will not rest with them.  The storm has passed, yes, but with what consequences?  Simply, Clarice, they didn't see me as a lamb to save, even a black one.  Where would the ignominy be in that, to either of us?  No.  All they saw and continue to see is a federal officer who risked her morals, career, and life to rescue a true 'baddie.'  Whatever you further accomplish in that esteemed secretarial job they have so thoughtfully granted will always be overshadowed.  By me.  _

_Does that burn you, Clarice?  To know you've sacrificed everything only to lose it anyway?  Now what are you left with?  Hmmm?_

_Did you still entertain the idea that the FBI will doctor your career?  Answer yourself truthfully, Special Agent Starling.  I suppose you could turn this letter in and pray for reinstatement, even if it is a price you wish not to pay.  I would hope you have the sensibility not to repeat mistakes.  _

_You didn't believe me so much the first time.  Perhaps you will now.  You believe in the oath you took.  They don't.  You believe it's your duty to protect the sheep.  They don't.  It is an institution that doesn't love you back, despite the sweat and tears and blood you've poured over it, for it, in the honor of its all-powerful title.  For that motto only recite in faith of its power.  _

_Despite all you have sacrificed, lost, given, had confiscated, they will never see what I see.  Does that burn you as well, Clarice?  Persistency in women does not earn a reputation for determination.  Persistency, you see, is a very unattractive feature when it radiates from the wrong person.  As you deduced sometime ago, your gender decided that for you long before coming to work for the FBI._

_Yes…I think it burns._

_You are used to this, though, aren't you?  It's all routine.  In and out every day.  Your capabilities exceed levels any of them dare dream, and yet you're restricted for one fundamental consistency.  Me.  I am always there, aren't I, Clarice?  I was there for ten years without having to be there at all.  Without any immediate influence.  It's no wonder the swarming rumors and snide remarks have not dwindled.  You were spared, marking you to the world as my weakness.  Bearing that in mind, this is new for me as well.  I spent years developing a reputation of uncompassionate savagery, tarnished all by one stolen kiss, even if you neglected to jot that down in your statement.  You are my __Achilles' heel__, my honey in the lion.  _

_That being said, I will merge to my true motive._

_Clarice, you worry me.  In observing you for a few, and I assure you, only a few days, you seem to be overshadowed by ghosts.  Beyond the restrictions and commentary of the public and your so-called superiors at the office.  Though I dare not venture a guess on what this prohibition you've encountered might entail, I will make an offer.  I ask you to at least consider before rejecting.  _

_I want to help you, Clarice.  Help you sort through all these little miseries life has so thoughtfully deposited in your lap.  However, my offer contains certain aspects pertaining to location that I cannot forfeit through the written word.  Consider these thoughts.  Should you decide to forgo, I understand.  It is easiest to wish our troubles away, and while it has never proven successful, I know we have been through more than humanly possible together.  One more confrontation might rightfully be the end for both of us.  However, it is a chance I am willing and rather eager to take._

_Refer to my older directions by which to contact me, should you reach for contact.  We'll have to avert pennames, of course.  Shall we say, David and Goliath, speaking of weaknesses?  That should elude suspicion, at least for the time being. _

_Society isn't easy on us, is it, Clarice?  I must wonder when such mediocre matters became business of the public.  _

_My own persistency matches yours, you'll see.  A fellow just can't say no when the remuneration is too delightfully rewarding to dismiss.  _

_Find where you are, my dear, and see whether or not I neighbor you in intentions.  Reflect on these things and decide for yourself.  We will go from there._

_Regards,_

_Hannibal Lecter, MD_

*        *        *


	3. The Decision

For the first few days, the only reply to her treacherous answer to Dr. Lecter's inquiry was the expected waves of guilt and remorse, made no easier by their predictability.  In deciding to deceive the Bureau, Starling acknowledged the impending culpability her overly religious conscience would issue.  Despite her inner break from any form of deity, her subconscious remained faithful to those values entwined with her at early age.

No matter what the Bureau did to upset her, it in no way excused reaching out to the centerpiece of the Ten Most Wanted list, yearning for personal-gain and not the monster's capture.  

The days that followed were hard, perhaps accentuated by her deceit.  As she walked the halls, she felt sure that everyone was glaring at her with unforgiving eyes.  Eyes that implored to know why.  _Why _had she betrayed them again?  All for the sake of the madman.  The monster.  

Of course, no one could know of her dishonor.  If the FBI had reason to suspect her, they would bring her in for questioning.  Starling knew from experience that it was not in their custom to sit around if someone was assumed to be involved in activities that made the culprit's prolonged career in the Bureau a distinct impossibility.  Especially if the matter concerned her.  No one in the Big Office was afraid to approach her about an issue concerning illegal involvement in anything related to Hannibal Lecter.  The largest step they took without her knowledge or consent was monitoring her mail.  No, Starling knew once they picked up a scent, the Bureau's bloodhounds liked to strike while the trail was hot.  Unless she saw them advancing, she felt reasonably safe.   

Inwardly, Starling toyed with the idea that nothing in her life would come easy.  It was easy to place blame on the uncontrollables, those things she could watch but never touch.  After all, as an orphan, it was prearranged that everything bore a heavy price.  

At that, she forced herself to a grin as a ridiculous thought rose in her head.  
    
    _("It's the hard-knock life for us!  It's the hard-knock life for us!")_
    
    After a few days, receiving no reply or any indication that Dr. Lecter relayed her message, Starling felt her frustration building.  Suffering from guilt was one thing, suffering without cause was damn near intolerable.  Absently, she entertained the thought that this was just a wile of the doctor to see where she stood, if she regretted the decision she so vocally screamed at the lake house.  Perhaps he would stand back now and laugh at her, all the while refusing her change of heart.
    
    Of course, Starling had not suggested in the placed article that it was her intention to change her mind.  It was merely an answer, something she would have to dwell on for future developments.  
    
    Again and again, she referred to the letter for reassurance that her actions were not in vain.  Similarly, again and again, she cursed herself for her doubts.  It was wide knowledge, even to those who were not familiar with Dr. Lecter's methods, that he never spoke a dishonest word.  The delay in his response meant something.  Perhaps he was waiting to scope out her motives, to see if she had truly noble intentions.  To make sure that her superiors were not looming over her shoulder, masterfully manipulating her as they did all their puppets.
    
    That, in all logicality, seemed most probable.
    
    Though clever, Starling at first feared that the pennames used in the articles were too obvious.  Of course, everything is obvious when a risk of being exposed is placed at stake.  She thought of her first viewing of 'The Sixth Sense,' how she, unlike the fellow audience members, clued in immediately that Bruce Willis was no different than the other specters haunting the child. She recalled how she thought it unwise to have Haley Joel Osment describe what the problem was with the camera so obviously focused on the dead man himself.  And, with some arrogance, Starling reflected how she realized by the number of gasps toward the end that no one else had the slightest idea.  It was that sort of perception that made her forget that not all people focused so closely to detail.   
    
    No one noticed.  She wondered if they even checked.
    
    The message, to her credit, was brief, having been trimmed in several revisions.  It seemed odd to edit something that was so small, but she did, again and again until it was satisfactory.  And even after the magazine printed, she made note with some disappointment the things she wished she could go back and change.  Starling wanted to sound like a person trying to sound like her, not herself trying to sound like someone else.  After rationalizing that – thoroughly confusing herself more than once – she gave up and conceded the rag.  It really didn't matter what she put, as long as it clearly defined her reply and acceptance of his offer.
    
    Still, in looking over it, she felt a pang of inferiority.  Starling was no writer, and she would be the first to admit this.  Even in skimming the text, she clearly read her lack of prolific speech.  Talking came much easier for her, and she would be glad when the opportunity to more conventional means of discussion were available.
    
    The article read:
    
    _Goliath:  Message received.  Offer accepted.  Contact me for further arrangements. – David._
    
    Starling had spent a good hour trying to decipher which one of them was David.  After referring to the letter time and time again, she made her choice.  Now, in the panicky aftermath of her ruse, she wondered if _that _was the reason he had neglected to answer.  At the mere suggestion that she was dominator, the one who overpowered him, who made him fall to his knees.
    
    But that was nothing he hadn't already stated in the letter, in his own fine copperplate handwriting.  
    
    Her reluctance to settle with the thought that his word had not transformed to read something else entire irritated her.  It was only a matter of patience, something they both knew she lacked in abundance.
    
    And so, here she was, doing quiet office work, occasionally sent to deliver a message to John Brigham's replacement at the gun range.  Every time she retreated, she felt something singe deeply and refused to acknowledge it as loss.  The office formerly occupied by Jack Crawford was avoided at all costs.  Starling felt abandoned by every reliability once held at Quantico.  Ardelia Mapp was gone, transferred and making wedding arrangements.  John Brigham, dead and buried.  And her mentor, the one person she depended on the most when times trying, reunited with his deceased wife, but leaving her blind with no dog to guide her.  
    
    Though, Starling reflected, she was at times glad that Crawford was gone, that he had died before seeing his favorite student blossom only to wither and lose faith in everything he taught.  Before he saw her reach for his enemy in a plea for assistance.  In need.
    
    Without the support of her closest friends, she felt very much like a rebel in enemy territory.  The words of console offered by Clint Pearsall were empty and rehearsed.  Though she respected and regarded him with some gratitude, Starling did not miss the disappointment in his tone.  The feeling was mutual.  Her disappointment with everything she sacrificed herself for was unbearable.
    
    And still, she felt guilt.  Guilt for betraying that which she hated.
    
    At night, she returned home to the comfort of hard liquor and continuous Abba, wishing over and over again that she were again young, sweet, and only seventeen.  Despite everything, it seemed to cheer her up, if only briefly.
    
    It was around this time that Starling buried herself in the literary world.  Having been long disgusted with reality, she turned to novels that took her to places where there was no FBI.  Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass was one of her favorites, and she was still trying to conjure an opinion on Lord of the Flies.  It was one of the novels she intentionally didn't read in high school.    
    
    A month eventually passed and no response from Dr. Lecter.  Starling routinely checked her mail, surveyed the landscape before retiring for the evening, and lingered at home a little longer than usual before going to work.  
    
    One month – then everything changed.
    
    On a Monday morning, Starling's personal least favorite day of the week, she phoned in and informed Pearsall that she wouldn't be arriving until that afternoon, that she was detained with a splitting headache.  Though he attempted to sound concerned, she could tell he was relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with her wealth of pessimism for a few more hours.  No questions asked.
    
    In truth, Starling did indeed have a headache, but nothing that wouldn't be solved in a half hour with two aspirin.  These days, she searched for any voluble excuse to refrain from facing those who accused her of conspiring while they busied in corners to plot her own demise.
    
    Incidentally, the mail arrived earlier that day than normal.  In later years, she would question the convenience of this, but found at the minute she hadn't the strength.
    
    When she opened her mailbox, Starling felt her pulse race and her eyes widen.  At long last, she recognized the silky envelope that only he used.  Fine script was on the front, this time carrying her address and a stamp.  It indicated that he was located in Branson, Missouri, but she knew that was the last place he would turn willingly, outside Vegas.  
    
    Like before, Starling discarded all other mail, regardless of bills, holiday cards, or anything else of genuine importance.  Instead, she hurried inside; exercising none of the restraint she held the last time such a document arrived at her disposal.  It didn't strike her as curious that not once had the thought of wearing latex gloves while studying this in a lab occur to her.  Not once did the idea that she should turn the new letter in flutter in her mind. Wasting little time with scrutiny of the envelope, she tore it open, careful not to rip the linen fiber paper, sank to her chair and began reading.
    
    _Clarice, you amuse me.  Are you growing restless?  _
    
    His mocking was tolerated.  If he had earned anything in the past few months, it was that.
    
    _In watching you the past few days – inadvertently admitting, I suppose, my brief return to Washington – I have concluded that you are a woman bored with the world.  Bored, and apprehensive.  You peer over your shoulder so frequently that one might suspect you were checking to make sure your shadow is still behind you.  It's there, Clarice, as it has always been, even if you cannot see it.  _
    
    _Process that a minute.  Chew on your lip, as you do when you think strenuously, similarly under the assumption that no one is watching.  The motion is terribly provocative.  _
    
    _Studying you while you do not know you are being watched is, ashamedly, the most fun I've had in years.  The unveiled chamber of your emotions, what you conceal from the public eye, is most exquisite.  I allow you your privacy, of course, and I assure you that I have not reduced myself to the likes of a Peeping Tom.  A glance here or there will satisfy me temporarily.  Compensation for so many years apart, you see.  _
    
    _But we're not here to discuss me, are we, Clarice?  You contacted me in response to my offer of help.  _
    
    _You understand, of course, that I could not respond immediately.  Firstly, I had to stretch the window between letters, just in case you felt a streak of unavoidable loyalty and felt compelled to confess your sins to the great whip master in the Bureau.  Secondly, I wanted to watch you.  Your article was most liberating.  Too good to be true, you might say.  I had to decide for myself if it was worth believing._
    
    _From what I have seen, Clarice, I trust your honesty.  Thus far.  I believe you are clever enough not to toy with me._
    
    _So it is help you seek?  We want empathy in our lives so terribly, do we not?  To the extent of reaching for the enemy in some reassurance that you have not lost yourself.  _
    
    _These next steps are risky on my part.  However, if second thoughts become unbearable, rest assured that I can easily slip out of reach.  Understand, Clarice, that if helping you constitutes turning myself in, you are decidedly on your own.  I will not face life in a concrete box, nor will I find my fate chosen by bureaucrats.  _
    
    _I suppose you can guess that as you read this, I have again left Washington.  As much as I would like to, visiting you in the heart of the land where I am sought the most is not the best move – for either of our benefits – that I could make at the time.  If it is a civil conversation you want, which would delightful, I admit, I advise that you rent a car and make reservations on the first flight to London.  Don't fret the cost – I will compensate whatever is spent._
    
    _However, the reservations are a diversion.  Should our dialogue exceed days, we will want to be one step ahead of your friends in the FBI.  Enclosed in the envelope, you will find a separate identity for Mrs. Natalie Campbell.  You will leave the car rented under your name in the airport parking lot and point the second vehicle toward Philadelphia.  Quite a drive, I know, but you have accomplished worse, haven't you?  Either way, you will not arrive there the first night._
    
    _Along the way is a very small town called Shelbyville.  It offers little more to the traveler than a fill-up station and a phone booth.  At precisely five p.m tomorrow evening, the phone at the local 7/11 will ring three times, stop, and two minutes later, ring once more.  Pick up on the second ring, and I will deliver further instructions._
    
    _I do hope you realize why such lengths are required.  Should you decide against coming, I understand completely.  But Clarice, you did reach to me for help.  I am offering that promised empathy, that blessed escape.  You may stay as long as you like, once you arrive at the final destination, and leave whenever you feel you have obtained all you need of my advice.  I will not make an ungentlemanly advance without your explicit permission, though that is not to say that I expect it.  I long ago learned not to predict your actions.  Rather than concede defeat when you pull a fast one (which is very typical of you.  Delightful so) even without realizing it, I have discovered it is far more pleasant to sit back and watch whatever is destined to unfold._
    
    _I await, Clarice. See you soon. _
    
    _                                                                   Fondest regards,_
    
    _­ – H ­–_
    
    *        *        *


	4. The Response

*        *        *

Drawing in a deep breath, Starling puffed out her cheeks and sat back.  In the air, she sensed the stirrings of a headache, one of the same she was becoming more familiar with.  She released a bottled sigh seconds later, raising the letter once more to eye level to reread it.  As was the case with the letter he sent in the afterward of the Evelda Drumgo affair, the second time through wasn't nearly as affective as the first.  Indeed, she heard his voice, but it wasn't as haunting.  As punctuating.  As definitive.  

But the words were still there.  Unchanged.

So he wanted to help her.  Hah!  Ten years destroying her, and now he wanted to help.  Help with what, dare she ask?  Though it was something she knew she would never wish, the best thing he could do to be of any assistance was present her with cuffed wrists.  

Yes, but what then?

There were certain things she needed to consider before arriving at any form of conclusion.  Firstly, the need to make an immediate choice was withdrawn, as he was no longer in the area.  Though Starling should be dismayed, she found herself oddly relieved.  Simply with that confirmed knowledge, it removed the burden of guilt she would inevitably face in approaching days.   For the minute, she had no pressure to jump up and seize her guns, phone the Bureau and alert them that the man they had spent ten years in search of was in the area, even if she hadn't intended to anyway.

Of course, she had no real reason to believe Dr. Lecter.  The implication of trust was lain out before her, and without lending time for pause in consideration; Starling discarded the notion that he might have lied to save himself the hassle.  If anything, he would have outlined his nearness in bold lettering to test her resolve.  To see where she stood.

Despite that, Starling had known well in advance, well before opening the letter, that she would not deliver it to the Bureau.  That revelation was made, acknowledged, and made again. If he were watching, he would know this by the torn envelope that would make its way to her dresser drawer rather than some laboratory.  

Back to the letter.  

In it, he ridiculed the obvious, noting the way people were reviving old theories about their very different relationship.  Starling sighed, revisited by memories and accusations following the rescue of Catherine Baker Martin, mostly off the tongue of Paul Krendler.  The pain again struck in its glorious familiarity at the suggestion that she wasn't talented enough to place the pieces together. However ridiculous the indictments were, people wanted to believe them.  Wanted to believe that she, a woman – and a young one at that – could not have possibly drawn that much out of a madman with nothing material in return.  No one was concerned with the very blatant fact that she had little time to entice the doctor during her visit in Memphis, and furthermore, that she was under observation in the duration of the interview.

People suspected her because _she came because she wanted to._  

("People will say we're in love.")

And now here she was, ten years digging herself out of that trench, and people were pointing the same fingers, even without Krendler's prompting.  Why, they wonder, did she resort to such a harmless and domestic weapon when a perfectly useful gun sat waiting at her disposal?  No need to review her conscious state at the time, no need to question the handiness of anyone – including federal agents – while under the influence of powerful morphine.  All they saw was a woman notoriously involved with Dr. Hannibal Lecter who refused to draw her most valuable weapon against him, instead resorting to a snow shaker, later a harmless kitchen knife, and finally a candlestick.  

In the aftermath, Starling defended her name courageously, though she was horribly afraid her self-control would crumple.  To the reporters that she continuously avoided, to the microphones she shoved from her mouth, to interviews and letters of inquiry she decided to answer, daily she felt the impulse to turn around and scream at them:  "I DIDN'T TAKE MY GUN BECAUSE I KNEW I'D HAVE TO USE IT!  BECAUSE I KNEW I COULDN'T KILL HIM!"

Gun, no.  She wouldn't, she *couldn't* kill him.  But she could seize cuffs to take him in, hand him to his tormenters, and watch as they killed him for her.

No.  Starling saw the stupidity in that now, and her lack of insight made her doubt her resolve.  It was obvious to her that she couldn't do that either.  She wouldn't do it – she wouldn't turn in the letter.  To have him captured at her hand was no better than blowing his head off.  

And next?  Lowering her eyes to the letter once more, she valuated the next paragraph.  _'Your morals betrayed you.'  _

He wasn't a lamb to save.  He was the enemy.  He stood against everything she affirmed her undying allegiance with, and yet, he was her victim.  The reason to provoke a one-person raid on a rich loony tune, risk her career and life to save her infamous nemesis.  Good versus evil.  Jesus versus Satan.  Herself versus the man she could not kill.  The man that – incidentally – could not kill her.

Did it burn her?  Slightly, but more for her reasons than theirs.  What they said, suggested, or directly accused didn't affect her anymore.  The truth, she was discovering, was more difficult to fight than something left to be discovered.  Self-evaluation.  Why was she here?  Why her?  Why anything?

To the letter again.  Would the FBI doctor her career?  

Starling bit her lip, considering, before gentle ripples claimed her body as she dissolved into humorless chuckles.

_Yeeeeaaahhhh…that was good._

Casting her eyes downward once more, she continued to analyze.  Yes, he was there with her every day, had been for a decade.  Following her, poking fun at others with her, making subtle suggestions as she studied a recent homicide, giving her blessed clues when no other voice rang with logic.  To say Catherine Martin was the only life he helped save was terribly misleading.  There wasn't one case she didn't turn to him to for guidance, always surprised how his assistance, even in her cavity, always seemed to be that missing link.  The final piece of the puzzle.  

Snickering, she heard herself speaking with Barney.  Thirty seconds a day indeed.  

And now she approached the end, where he offered his assistance.  His assistance in what?  Did she need him for anything?  Was there something he knew that she didn't?  A new serial killer on the verge of abducting some lamb to save?

Rather unlikely.  She knew better than that.

A stolen kiss.  Even now, her lips burned.  And that was what he wanted.  A forever reminder, a keepsake.  Something to make her ignite every time she thought of it, to reflect on those final seconds in personal scrutiny, to wonder why she reacted – or didn't react – the way she did.  Such coldness, such hatred, such confusion, such…sadness.

He was leaving her, and she knew it.  Leaving her to possibly never return.

Starling growled her aggravation and jumped up.  Drawing in harsh breaths, she considered the letter, feeling the warmth of the fire pulsing, taunting, begging.  Despite everything, despite her raw desire to follow inner ambitions and do as he asked, there was that little reminder of her duty.  Her annoyingly persistent duty.

_Burn it…burn it…burn it…_

For a long time, she watched the parchment without seeing, the ink swirling into a mass jubilation.  Fabulously written incoherent lettering.  Her eyes dared it to jump from her hand and land carelessly in the fire.  To make her decision for her, for she knew, despite her actions, that she would regret whatever path she chose to follow.  

_Burn it…burn it…burn it…_

But she didn't.  

There was no surprise in her revolution.  In those brief seconds, considering, deciding her fate, Starling saw the walkway to her home and the pledge of forged security it offered.  Her career, her wonderfully falsified career.  That which she slaved, sweated, and bled over.  That which destroyed her.  Trailing up the walkway, aligned with shadows, of specters, of things she outlined but couldn't see.

The darkness where lambs continued to scream, but not for her assistance.  Now, she knew, they screamed for him.  He, who caused her such turmoil, who destroyed and created her in one blow, who bestowed the fame she never wanted with headlines that disgraced her name, even if it wasn't his intent.  He whom she needed with or without merit, with or without reason.  For, in the end, what was Clarice Starling without Hannibal Lecter?  One half of the cosmic puzzle.  One half of a headline.  One half of the breaking story, even if her most recent ignominy failed to involve him.  

Again, she flashed to Evelda Drumgo, recalling the media coverage she watched in the afterward of John Brigham's funeral.

("Agent Starling received some measure of celebrity ten years ago when she interviewed lethal madman Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter.")

What possible relevance did that have in the fish market shooting?  None.  But he was always there.  Her other half.  The missing piece.  Apart of her.  Because, like it or not, no one knew Clarice Starling existed if Hannibal Lecter wasn't involved, and vice versa.  How much interest had the public had in him prior to the events at Chesapeake?  How much fuss had risen out of the charges made against her in Memphis?

She was the beauty to his beast, or the beast to his beauty.  Romanticized to the wazoo, despite the mediocre attempts made to keep her relationship with Dr. Lecter from turning sexual in the media.  'Bride of Frankenstein' indeed.  The vampire's mistress.  How remarkably un-amusing.  

What now?  What was left of her?

And she knew.  She knew she had to contact him.  David and Goliath.  The David to his Goliath.  The only one that possessed the secret to his weakness, that could sling that deadly stone to destroy him, whether or not it was her intent to do so.  Starling smiled inwardly at the thought, her hand wavering a bit as she released a breath.  The fireplace seemed to crackle as she moved away, sensing its loss of sacrifice.  

The names had a higher meaning, too.  Nothing was ever one-sided in their perversely dependable relationship.  She was similarly the Goliath to his David.  No one else could devalue her and make it sting, tear her up efficiently and make her believe it.  

Contact him.  What else was there?  Starling sighed, not knowing how or why.  Her motives were unclear to her, what she hoped to accomplish by responding to his offer was ambiguous.  To talk?  To resolve these petty issues, for what they were worth?  To decide what to do with her career?  To…

To give him her half of that kiss and make *his* lips burn.

No.  Sharply, she shook her head.  Despite her revelations, Starling wasn't quite prepared to make any sort of admittance that required the release of repressed feelings.  Feelings that she firstly denied to repress.  It was too soon for that yet.

But she did yearn for his guidance, his advice, his insight on her current situation.  Beyond the vague points highlighted on a letter.  She wanted to converse.  Nothing had ever seemed so important to her.  Afterward, she would have to decide.  

_Decisions, decisions…  _

Submitting her answer to the requested sources took little more than a visit to select Internet sites.  David to Goliath.  From there, all she could do was wait.  Wait, and hope.

*        *        *


	5. Caught

(Author's Note: This is the chapter where the story averts from the original option.  The following segment of this story will be posted as soon as time allows.  Thank you.)
    
    In all her years, Starling reflected that the process of decision, despite how significant the matter was, was often strategic and outdrawn.  She was a woman who didn't deal well with being wrong, and she often exercised every option until the issue in question was yesterday's news.  When she reread the words Dr. Lecter articulated on paper, she acknowledged, perhaps in vain, that the decision she was presented with was already made.  Before sending her inquiry to the designated publications, Starling accepted that her answer, should it arrive, might very well ask her to find him, wherever he might be.
    
    Philadelphia.
    
    Likewise, in admitting the possibility of her relocation as per his response, Starling had similarly debated her options – and arrived presumably at a decision.  Truth of the matter was, there was so much more to lose if she ignored his offer than there was if it was accepted.  After all, should she ever come to regret leaving, all she had to do was point her vehicle in the other direction and return.  Such a leave of absence might cost her that coveted place in the Bureau, and she nearly laughed aloud at the suggestion.  If that was it, so be it.  She no longer felt the annoying obligation to apprehend him, steal his freedom.  In stating that, she might as well hand over her badge.  Though Starling faced no difficulty in cuffing the minor offenders, the drug dealers, those behind petty thefts, various gang members, and so forth, it didn't do well for her résumé that the one criminal she was admittedly incapable of apprehending just happened to be the so-called worst of them all.  
    
    She had fallen in love with the Bureau, only to discover after giving it everything she had that it did not love her back.  In that, she sacrificed herself, the last wasted decade of her life, closing the final chapter of her law-enforcement career.  Now she turned to run to the man that traveled halfway across the world to watch her to do so.  Despite the feeble attempts to restrain him in the lake house, she knew he was free because she let him go.  Because she wished him to have clean air that he might breathe without fear that it was his last.  Because when it came down to it, they were just alike.
    
    Just alike.
    
    He was *alive* because of her, and similarly, she was *alive* because of him.  Because she saved him from a horrific fate, her enemy, and in return, he saved her.  Not merely in collecting her in his arms to whisk her away to their laughable happy-ever-after, but in opening her eyes to the damage the Bureau was doing to her.  Had done to her, would continue to do to her, should she stay behind.
    
    Now, after risking everything only to face coldness and rejection, he again reached to her, hand offered in empathy.  A promised retreat so that they might chat as equals.  Not FBI agent to fugitive, not doctor to patient, nor instructor to pupil.  Equals.  
    
    Coins and medals were not the order of the day in this relationship.  Not anymore.  
    
    Beauty and the beast, indeed.
    
    There, decision made.  Starling sighed, feeling the burdened weight relax off her shoulders.  Once she realized the epiphany she made in just seconds, she felt the corners of her mouth lift into a smile.  __
    
    _("Now wasn't that easy, Clarice?") _
    
    Easier than a lot had been in the past few weeks, yes.  For the first time since that evening on the Chesapeake coast, she felt she had reason to smile, genuinely smile.  As her nerves tingled with the impulse to burst into hysteric laughter, simply for the implication that everything would truly be all right from now on, Starling turned her eyes one last time to the text.  She had to read it again, if only to be sure the words hadn't evaporated or transformed to mean something else entire.  Dialogue was what she craved, fresh conversation with him.  Resolved issues, their deserved closure.  Two meetings in ten years, each leaving her feeling emptier than the last: cold and unfulfilled.  In this, she wanted to change that receptive trait, to confront him without seeking information about a case, without being influenced by drugs, and to leave, should that be her decision, with a completely new sense of self.
    
    Once, some time ago, Dr. Lecter told her that all good things come to those who wait.  He also similarly informed her that he had waited, but how long could she?  Starling pursed her lips together in thought.  There was less than twenty-four hours between now and when the phone would ring tomorrow afternoon.  Could she wait that long?
    
    Time.  Starling sat forward with a start.  If this is what she intended, she better get a jump on Dr. Lecter's instructions.  There were reservations to make, cars to rent, and phones to answer.  Suitcases?  To hell with suitcases.  She would buy clothing when she arrived.  Having been raised to not squander her savings – something she followed with acute precision unless alcohol was on the receiving end – Starling knew her modest amount of money would cover essentials.  Right now, she didn't want to pause.  The environment of the house, the eerie silence of it, was making her uncomfortable.  
    
    _("Unemployment is becoming to you, Clarice.  Hasty behavior, as it is.  Do you assume I will provide for you?") _
    
    To hell with providing.  She wanted to get out, and was sure he would appreciate that.  Doing a quick runabout the house, she gathered all the essentials: money, identification, her company passport, everything that would be required for a plane ticket to an absent holder on the first available flight to London.  Once she knew she had everything, Starling didn't waste any time in scrutiny of the place she had called home for ten years.  After all, she knew what she was leaving, and should she never return, something that was admittedly a possibility, she knew what it looked like and would never forget.  
    
    Pushing everything she needed into her purse, Starling withdrew her keys and started for the front door.  She shut off all the overhead lights, methodically, careful to leave a few lamps on to distract attention from potential robbers until she discovered exactly where this was going.  Should she decide to return, she wanted everything in place as she left it.  No need to advertise her absence unless it was absolutely crucial.
    
    With a conclusive sigh and a mental farewell, Starling moved to open the front door, nearly colliding with Clint Pearsall.
    
    The first thought that crossed her mind was her overwhelming gratitude that she had opted for no suitcase, for she knew that this would look particularly odd, seeing as she had yet to call in and announce her weekend getaway plans.  The second was darker and more complex.  Starling felt her eyes narrow as she masterfully recollected herself, stood back, and breathed a sigh of mild irritation.  "Mr. Pearsall," she said in greeting, reaching to brush some fallen hair from her face.  "What can I do for you, sir?  It is rather late."
    
    "Going somewhere, Starling?" he asked, pointedly ignoring her question, arching both brows as he briefly glanced to the purse in her hand.  
    
    The lie she created came naturally, which surprised her, as if she had been born to fib to law officers, to her superiors.  Lying always came easily when it was in the presence of a known-offender, but never had she bent the truth in Pearsall's company, nor the late Jack Crawford's.  "I was heading out for some supper," she retorted.  "Late night.  What can I do for you?"
    
    "You look a bit flushed.  Are you all right?"
    
    "Surprised that you're here is all."
    
    "I see.  Well, I'm coming by more as a friendly errand," he said, motioning with his eyes that he would like to enter.  "Please.  It will only be a minute."
    
    Starling's patience was teetering, tired of being stretched, relaxed, and stretched again.  However, he would only be suspicious if she refused his offer, thus she nodded and stood aside.  "Of course," she muttered under her breath.  "'Course.  Sorry, Mr. Pearsall.  You just startled me."
    
    "I know I don't visit often," he replied with a chuckle, wiping his feet on the doormat.  
    
    "Ever," she corrected.  "I don't believe you've ever stopped by."
    
    "Surely once or twice in the course of ten years?"
    
    "Maybe, but never unannounced, and never so late."
    
    He offered a kind smile.  "I'm sorry for that.  I should have called first."
    
    "Is this about a case you want to put me on?"  Starling didn't intend to sound so direct, but her eyes were on the mantelpiece, watching as the seconds ticked by without mercy.  Though she knew she could make good time, she was anxious to get out of here and on with it.  Once she was on the road, she knew she would feel better.
    
    "Oh no.  No.  I'm actually here to offer an apology."  That caught her attention.  Sharply, Starling's eyes turned up as she peeled layers away from his, as though determined to catch *him* in a lie.  No such luck.
    
    This didn't smell right.  "And you couldn't say this over the phone?" she asked casually.   
    
    "The phone lacks the personal touch.  Starling, I know you've been through hell and back, these past few months.  None of us have made it any easier on you.  You've taken your punishment for the unauthorized raid on the Verger estate very well, asking for nothing."  He sighed, breaking eye contact to stare fixatedly on his shoes.  That single gesture informed Starling that he was not tooting anyone else's horn, and she felt the expected stab of unwanted guilt at her recent treacherous actions spear her through her stomach.  Nevertheless, she forced herself to ignore it.  The revolutions she had made in the past half hour were not to be forfeited for anything.  Her mind averted to Dr. Lecter, to the way his voice echoed through her mind without provocation.  And she knew.  She knew despite whatever Pearsall said, that she would have to go, if only to make that one last self-discovery before settling for the middle
    
      "I'm not the only one that's noticed it," he continued, unaware that her mind was only half with him now.  "But no one else wished to discuss this with you.  We haven't come out and said it since you returned, and we haven't been as sympathetic on a *personal*, not professional, but personal basis as we could have.  I guess all I'm here to say is, you're still one of our best agents.  As soon as this whole thing blows over, and it will in time…you'll return to more acclaimed cases.  No more paperwork.  I know how dull that must be."
    
    Starling blinked as his eyes finally tore away from the leather of his shoes and traveled upwards to meet hers once more.  "I just wanted to tell you that.  We…I felt you needed to hear it, after all you've been through."
    
    Exerting a breath, Starling pursed her lips together and nodded.  "Thank you, Mr. Pearsall.  That reassurance means a lot."  In truth, it did, but she was itching to get out the door.
    
    They stood simultaneously.  
    
    "Thanks for dropping by."  And she meant it.  Starling knew, before embarking on this crazy journey, that she needed that air of reassurance that everything *would* be here as she left it when she returned.  Knowing that life could continue and otherwise remain unchanged, should she decide to leave Dr. Lecter's company after a few days, left with the back door open to return.  To seize herself as she was before this, and try one more time for the name that daddy never had, but always wanted her to have.
    
    And yet, despite this, Starling knew that her days as an FBI Agent, with or without Pearsall's promise, with or without Dr. Lecter's guidance, were over.  She was not foolish enough to chance it a third time.  The past has a tendency to repeat itself, and she stood there as living proof.
    
    "It was a pleasure," Pearsall replied with a smile.  "I think you needed to hear that."
    
    _But it doesn't really change anything, _Starling thought, recalling his words after the hearing that followed the Drumgo raid.  _Except me._
    
    And this time, she meant it.
    
    When she went to open the door for him, their shoulders bumped and her purse slipped down her arm.  Starling felt the bottom of her stomach drop.  Both pairs of eyes followed it, and Pearsall, gentlemanly, knelt to gather its spilt content for her convenience.  
    
    And though he might have tried, the eyes do not contain the power to shut off and forget to read whenever the invasion of privacy is at stake.  Therefore, when he saw the familiar writing on the linen envelope, it was rather difficult to ignore.  
    
    When his eyes wandered upward, Starling knew she had betrayed herself.
    
    *        *        * 
    
    At 4:57 the next day, the pay phone at the 7/11 in the small town of Shelbyville rang several times, the call intended to whoever might be happening by and promised a good half hour of phone sex.  When there was no answer, the callers evidently gave up, and all went silent once more.
    
    Then, at 5:01, slightly tardy because of the teenage predecessors, the phone rang once more, three times and stopped.  At 5:03, it rang once, then twice, then a third time, and again stopped, rather shortly with the taste of rejection.
    
    There was no one to answer.


	6. The Twilight Zone

The next few days passed as some ethereal dream. In the past, Starling had referred to Pearsall as her largest supporter, something that really didn't say much for him, but it was nice to have someone on your side that spoke for you. Throughout her trials after the Drumgo raid, he insisted that all would be well, that the Bureau couldn't afford to lose her, and even managed to obtain a fallback job for her, however much she detested the position. After Krendler planted the so-called love letter from Dr. Lecter, he expressed his firm belief that they would discover a mistake had indeed been made. And when she reported the abduction she witnessed at Union Station, he stressed that her impending moves might jeopardize her continued career. Out of everyone from the inside, he alone seemed to understand that they couldn't afford to lose her.  
  
Now, though, without Pearsall's support, Starling was left unequivocally alone. Never had she foreseen things turning this bad. Whispered voices and flamboyant rumors had been replaced with silence. Cold, piercing silences along with accusatory stares. She was alone in enemy territory, sitting outside of closed offices as the eager tormentors within gleefully plotted her undoubtedly long and over-pronounced punishment. The conspirators, now that she was fair game at her own accord and not by accident, were absolutely delighted, and not at all subtle with what they thought should become of her.  
  
Usually, in matters such as these, every measure was taken to keep the news out of the headlines. However, in Starling's case, the media was welcome, and the story was public knowledge by the next evening. Expectedly, Starling quickly became Public Enemy Number One, and no one, even those on the outside, those she might pass on the way to the supermarket but never speak to, seemed terribly surprised. The mistrusted agent had finally given them a reason to set up the gallows.  
  
But not yet. With as much media attention this matter bought, it was everyone's hope that Dr. Lecter would come to her aid in person to get her out of her mess. Until they were certain that he had given up, as such was indicated in his second letter, Starling was to be kept in the limelight, the public eye, and ridiculed as often as possible.   
  
Through it all, Starling managed herself as best she could, really caring little what happened to her. That surprised her, and the holder's of her fate, for she bore a façade of disinterest, as though it mattered little what became of her career, of her life. What punishments she might face for this.  
  
After debating the issue strenuously as Sneed gave her a lecture in front of the board, she concluded that her indifference was attributed to the fact that the Bureau was proving every notion Dr. Lecter made in his letters with the actions they were taking. It wasn't fair to say she felt no pangs of regret, sitting as the black sheep. Regret that she hadn't handed in her resignation after the lake house, or better yet, after the Drumgo affair. Regret that she hadn't been there to answer the phone, but not for the circumstances. The part of her that fed on selfishness was terribly thankful to the headlines, for they told Dr. Lecter that she hadn't ignored him, that she had indeed planned to be there and answer his call. However, the more sensible and fearful side of her psyche was beyond apprehensive that he would do something careless as an angry result. Though she knew he was cautious, extremely cautious, one couldn't risk too much when she was being watched as closely as she was.   
  
Still, she couldn't help but be glad that, if he paid any attention to headlines, which she knew he did, that he was aware of the events that kept her from answering the phone. From driving to meet him, preferably never to return. That it was hardly by decision.   
  
It amazed her that these men could study both letters and her article to the assigned magazines so carefully and miss the context, miss that they were doing exactly what he predicted they would do. Miss everything that might hint as to why she was on the verge of taking this drastic leap.  
  
But despite the yelling, the insults, the silence, despite everything that suggested she should shiver with some regret, with something to symbolize that she wanted repentance, Starling failed to satisfy. It didn't matter. She could get on her knees and beg, scream the error of her ways and the many methods she undertook in order to 'see the light,' and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. Such extremities, firstly when she had no desire to preserve the secretarial position she had kept for the past few months, and secondly, when it would do little or no good, were hereby avoided. Despite the logic, her refusal to whore herself to their liking only added to their fury, and to the measures of her imminent chastisement.  
  
A full week after Pearsall's late night stop passed before her one-time superior expressed any interest in speaking with her alone. Starling agreed more or less because of her curiosity. There was a hearing scheduled for the following week, and she wasn't required to do anything but show up until then.   
  
She wanted to see what he had to say.  
  
It was late when she entered his office, late for both of them. He was seated at his desk, copies of Lecter's letters and the magazines she had betrayed herself in sprawled across the top. Starling didn't look at them. Her eyes burned only into his, nothing of respite, but more or less to show that she didn't fear him, or what might happen to her.   
  
They shared a long look.  
  
"Sit, Starling," he said at last, breaking eye contact to indicate the chair she had occupied so many times in the past.   
  
For a full minute, she stood in silence. Then, slowly, she moved and took her seat, eyes never leaving his face. As casually as she could phrase it, she said deliberately, "You wanted to see me, Mr. Pearsall?"  
  
Her negligence annoyed him visibly, but he declined comment. Instead, he leaned forward, clasped his hands professionally, and stated, "You know what's going to happen now, don't you?"  
  
"I won't until the hearing."  
  
"They're not going to go sweet on you, Starling. You're an embarrassment to the Bureau."  
  
"I believe, if you refer to those photocopies you have on your desk, that you'll find I'm not." Starling sat back, keeping her gaze level and calm. The waters she treaded were dangerous, and the glare she earned confirmed that. "Maybe if you would actually read—"  
  
"We've poured ourselves over it," Pearsall dismissed angrily. "Over and over. What could have possibly motivated you to—"  
  
"Motivated me?" Starling leaped up suddenly, snatching the printer paper off his desk, eyes skimming the words she knew so well. It was nothing final or provocative, more or less a product of her irritation and disbelief that they could read without absorbing. "How about this: _'Whatever you further accomplish in that esteemed secretarial job they have so thoughtfully granted will always be overshadowed.' _And this!" She thumbed through the pages to find the next. _"'You believe in the oath you took. They don't. You believe it's your duty to protect the sheep. They don't. It is an institution that doesn't love you back, despite the sweat and tears and blood you've poured over it, for it, in the honor of its all-powerful title. For that motto only you recite in faith of its power.   
  
"'Despite all you have sacrificed, lost, given, had confiscated, they will never see what I see. Does that burn you as well, Clarice? Persistency in women does not earn a reputation for determination. Persistency, you see, is a very unattractive feature when it radiates from the wrong person. As you deduced sometime ago, your gender decided that for you long before coming to work for the FBI.' _Is that clear enough for you, Mr. Pearsall? I'm tired of being your beck and call girl. I'm tired of taking all this horseshit, for paying for something because you people listened to the likes of Paul Krendler without bothering to think that he might not be right about something. I'm tired of waiting for that advancement I deserved ten years ago. It says so, right here," she slapped the papers against the edge of the desk, causing him to blink in surprise, "in black and white."  
  
It took Pearsall a minute to conjure a reply, and when he did, his tone was dead and his eyes were dull in lack of comprehension. "So instead of simply resigning, you thought you'd run to the arms of the very same madman that got you into this position in the first place?"  
  
"Good Lord…" Starling grumbled, rolling her eyes. "Hardly. It says clearly that all he wanted to do was help me. You people haven't done shit since the raid. You give me secondhand jobs, acting as though you don't care that what Mason Verger was doing was against the law. Forget that I had to witness Krendler eating his own brains; forget that I did try to apprehend Dr. Lecter. All because I was on fucking suspension for something I didn't do in the first place."  
  
"You're still arguing that you didn't hold that letter on purpose?"  
  
"With all due respect, Mr. Pearsall, if Dr. Lecter had sent me that letter, and I had kept it to myself, what would the point be in maintaining my innocence now? The mess I'm in currently is much worse."  
  
Pearsall shook his head. "I still don't get it, Starling. You did all those things, as you said, to apprehend him, and at the first chance you get, you plan to run off to him with no admitted attention of pursuing his arrest."  
  
"I wanted to talk. That's all. Talk to someone who fucking doesn't look at me as though I don't have a right to breathe his air."  
  
"Clearly, he expected more, though," he said, snatching the papers from her fluidly. _"'My own persistency matches yours, you'll see. A fellow just can't say no when the remuneration is too delightfully rewarding to dismiss.' _And this…" He paused a minute as he shuffled through the papers. _"'I will not make an ungentlemanly advance without your explicit permission, though that is not to say that I expect it. I long ago learned not to predict your actions. Rather than concede defeat when you pull a fast one (which is very typical of you. Delightful so) even without realizing it, I have discovered it is far more pleasant to sit back and watch whatever is destined to unfold.' _Don't you get it, Starling? They're going to look at his reasoning as an insult to them, and you, having conceded to follow, are just as high up on their shit list. They don't care how much sense it made to you. They see a woman who's thrown her career away, and a madman who desperately wants to see her again, notably not only for talk, no matter what the text says." Sighing, Pearsall let the papers drop to the desk once again. "Starling…even if you did apologize and try to make this up…there's no way."  
  
"I'm not going to apologize," she said firmly. "I'm not sorry. You people are just confirming everything he said in those letters. I'm too disgusted with it all."  
  
He continued as though he hadn't heard her. "We can only hope that he has seen the coverage and comes for you. That might help loosen your sentence. But I wouldn't hope too much. Either way, I'd say you're dressed up with no place to go, except maybe behind bars for a time." Pearsall sighed wearily. "You almost got out of it the first time, which is what I don't get. You were almost out of the dark and into the clearing. But now…"  
  
Starling shrugged. "Fantastic. I'll bet I could find better company there than in here."  
  
He shot her an irritated glance, but knew no comment or reprimand would make any difference. "I'm just glad Jack Crawford isn't alive to see this. He was always fond of you."  
  
"If Jack Crawford were alive, I doubt I'd be sitting here. I doubt any of this would've happened," Starling remarked. "He actually had faith in me. He was the only one who did."  
  
"And look at you now."  
  
That made her flinch. It was the first thing passed that stung, and she knew Pearsall must be thrilled at the sight. One thing she did hate about this was the implied disappointment flustering in her late mentor, wherever he was.   
  
Conversation dwindled after that, comments constructed to make the other recoil at their own petty faults and inconsistencies doing nothing but fuel the will to battle. Neither at an understanding, nor at a complete crossroads, they met in the middle, and she chose the road less traveled. When she left his office that night, Starling felt some form of liberation, reciting Frost to herself as she headed to her car. If it was Pearsall's objective to make her visibly display any strings of regret, then he failed miserably. In direct counterpoint, she was only that much more sure of her new convictions.  
  
Even if Hannibal Lecter was thoroughly disgusted with her and decided never to come around again, Starling didn't feel cheated of anything, except, perhaps, their dialogue. Without being here, he assisted her to see what would ultimately be seen, and for nothing would she take it back.  
  
A hearing next week, followed by the inevitable jail time, or some other degrading punishment. Surprisingly, the thought didn't frighten her. It shook her somewhat, but didn't frighten her. She suddenly felt like Hester Prynne, standing in her self-constructed Hell, different and cursed to solitude by the others, watching as those she had known forever judged her for her sins, looking but never seeing.  
  
If only things were still that simple. Starling very much doubted that a scarlet letter would suffice in place of the true castigation. And while she wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of jail time, it almost seemed worth it compared to the hell she was enduring. When a woman was as atrociously pissed as she was, hardly anything could match the source of her anxiety.  
  
So enamored was she in the divinely liberating thoughts coursing through her head that it took a few seconds to recognize the gentle hum emanating from her purse. When she finally identified it as her cell phone – her private phone, she had to give the company one up several days before – she sighed and reached inward, plucking it out gingerly, her mind still occupied, clouded…but free.  
  
"Hello?" she asked softly, rummaging through her bag for her keys, the outline of the Mustang standing not so discreetly against the night, given the nearest streetlight had evidently died. She had to strain to see it.   
  
"Starling?"  
  
It took her a minute to identify the voice, more or less because she hadn't heard it in a while. With a worn smile, she unlocked the driver's side door and slid inward, resting a minute against the seat. "Hey Ardelia. It's been a while."  
  
"Yeah. Shoulda kept in touch and all that. Where are you?"  
  
"In the Quantico parking lot. I'm about to go home."  
  
"Tried you there…didn't wait for the machine to pick up. It rang about twenty times."  
  
"I haven't had an answering machine in a while. Never seemed to be of much use. No one ever called."  
  
There was a sigh on the other line, a brief pause, and Starling sensed the conversation was heading into perilous territory. She had not conversed with Mapp in an unusually long time, ever since her friend moved away. They had, of course, promised to keep in touch, but life, inevitably, stood in the way with all its glorious complications. There was work to consider, phone bills to pay, the need of sleep and the three-second checks on email, often resorting in a return of a line or two, usually a mimic of the last message. In the time that had passed, Starling didn't even know what Mapp's profession was anymore. She had left on an offer to teach at a university in Denton, Ohio, but her friend had many seasons about her and didn't like being tied to one occupation. Why she accepted to leave in the first place was unknown, though the popular assumption was it had something to do with a good-looking professor or dean.   
  
At the time, before the Drumgo raid, before Dr. Lecter reentered her life, Starling had suffered pangs of abandonment and almost heated betrayal. Times were better then than now, though not much, and she was shocked at how easily her friend turned away from the one who needed her the most. Empty reasons had long plagued her conscious, and she wondered, inwardly, if Mapp's departure was caused or influenced by the very same standards by which Starling was in trouble today. If so, she could understand. Mapp would never vocalize her troubles like that. She always wanted to appear tough, to assume the position of comforting others. Decency, despite ostentation, was strong in her family.   
  
"It's probably better that I caught you here," her friend decided at last. "They've bugged your phone, haven't they?"  
  
"I'd expect so. I haven't checked…didn't really need the reminder," Starling replied, leaning into the seat. "I think they've probably taken every legal, and perhaps illegal, precaution to be sure I don't jump the country or something like that."  
  
"Starling, I've held out. I don't know the whole story, but I have a pretty good idea of what happened from the headlines."  
  
A moan crawled in her throat, but she killed it before it could escape. Her own notoriety should not surprise her now. However, the question, despite the obviousness of the answer, could not be defeated in the same fashion. "In Ohio?"  
  
"Girl, you need to get over the stupid notion that Hannibal Lecter is local news. Everyone wants to know what happened, or what is happening, or what has happened in the past."   
  
"Yeah, yeah."  
  
"So what happened?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Everyone includes me, too, you know."  
  
Starling sighed, trying unsuccessfully to lean further into the seat. Darkness encircled the car, and the workers whose shifts were only beginning were instinctively avoiding the areas of lesser light. Words pieced in her mind, constructing pliable excuses, but she knew that despite how she explained it, no one, not even her very best (and possibly very last) friend would ever understand.  
  
"What happened? Hell, Ardelia, if you say you've read the papers, then you know what happened," she barked at last, her mind dilapidated from the same tedious questioning, though still soaring with the promise of inward freedom. "Ain't much more to it."  
  
"I'd rather hear it from you. Your side," Mapp replied stubbornly. "If I were to believe everything the headlines said, I doubt very much that you and I would be on the absolutely *fantastic* terms we are now. Girl, if you're in trouble, you better tell me. Don't push me away. I think you could use a friend right about now."  
  
"I *am* in trouble. I don't want you to be, too."  
  
There was a disbelieving snort on the other line. "Have they bugged your cell phone?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do they even know you *own* a cell phone, other than the one on their phone bill?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, I will admit it's been a while since I studied procedure, but as far as I can remember, none of the board directors are psychic, are they?"  
  
Starling chuckled dryly, without humor, placing her free hand on her head as though to wan away looming pain. Headaches, it seemed, were becoming more and more common. "Lord knows they seem like they are. I'll never get over how Pearsall timed his fucking visit that precisely."  
  
"Tell me what happened," Mapp persisted, her tone sliding into the 'don't-fuck-with-me' recesses she always reserved for matters that were especially important to her. "Don't make me open up a can."  
  
The truth tickled her tongue, beckoning to be released. Starling debated for a minute, then finally figured…what the hell? Someone might as well know the *full* story, and should her friend think any less of her, she would know exactly how easily Mapp's allegiance was earned, and similarly broken.   
  
"Dr. Lecter contacted me a few weeks ago," she said at last. "I responded without informing the FBI, without intending to inform them. He gave me instructions on how to find him, and I was ready to do it."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I needed to talk with someone who understands me. I *need* someone who understands me."  
  
She heard the challenge in her friend's voice before the question was asked. "Why not give me a call? I've always understood—"  
  
"Ardelia, I love you like a sister, but honestly, no one but the person who was right there beside me stands a chance in hell of understanding what I've been going through." She sighed, defeated. After waiting for a reply to little avail, she continued, "I was ready to leave…I thought he would visit me, but he decided it was important that I go to him. Make me make the move and everything…you know him…well, no I guess you don't. Anyway, in reality, that makes more sense. I'm glad he didn't visit me. Imagine what Pearsall would've said to find Hannibal Lecter in my house and not just two of his unpublicized letters."  
  
A short silence. "How did Pearsall get a hold of the letters anyway?"  
  
"He came by to say…" Starling paused to remember exactly what was the motive of his visit, and chuckled humorlessly with recollection. "Ironically, he came to say that he's sorry about how everyone's treated me. I was two seconds from leaving…he bumped shoulders with me on the way out, and Dr. Lecter's letters tumbled out of my purse."  
  
"Where were you going?"  
  
"To a pay phone. He was going to call me." Starling sighed. After another breath, she added with some conviction, "He has helped me, though, without having to be here. I might never have seen the pricks for what they were if Pearsall hadn't given me a full-blown demonstration. I should've seen it a long time ago. I'm too damned, trusting, Ardelia. He probably thinks I snuffed him, but oh well. It's too late now."  
  
"I doubt that," Mapp replied earnestly. "I don't think there's a man, woman, or child alive who haven't seen the media coverage."  
  
"People take what they want from the media, Ardelia. Isn't that why you called me in the first place?" Puffing out her cheeks, she shook her head, withdrawing from the seat, turning her keys to the ignition. "Well, there you have it. Diagnoses?"  
  
"I think you need a psychiatrist."  
  
She chortled appreciatively at her friend's honesty without taking time to consider the implication attached to that statement. "Knew I could count on you, 'Delia."  
  
Mapp continued as though she hadn't spoken. "But for now, I hope a friend will due."  
  
"You've been really helpful. Think any less of me?"  
  
"Starling, this Ardie we're talking about. Remember me, babe? You did surprise me, but I'd never think less of you. I used to work there, once upon a time. I know what kind of bullshitters they have running the place. Though I promise you one thing: I'll never say you don't have a social life again." A short pause. "Incidentally, I'd really like to see you. It's been too damn long, and you could use a friend right now. Think you could drop by?"  
  
"Hah. I don't think fleeing the city's the best idea at the time, girl, or you know I'd love to. These agent types might get funny ideas. After all…" She started the engine and started to pull out of the parking lot. By this time, traffic had died and the late shift workers were already positioned at their stations. All was quiet once more. "That is what I was planning to do in the first place."  
  
"I took that into consideration," Mapp retorted coolly. "Which is why I'm staying at the Pennsylvania House all week."  
  
Starling blinked and nearly swerved in surprise, her breath hitching with utter gratification, genuine for the first time in days. It was nice to feel an emotion other than disgust coinciding with liberation flowing through her veins. "You're in DC?" she demanded excitedly.   
  
"Yep. Got here today, actually."  
  
"Why didn't you say so?!"  
  
"Wanted it to be a surprise?" Mapp replied sheepishly, repressed laughter tickling her voice. "I didn't know if you wanted company or not."  
  
"Girl, if I had money, I'd hire company, if I didn't think they'd judge me. Are you serious? The Pennsylvania House? That's on my way home!"  
  
"Don't think you'll get in trouble for that, now will you?"  
  
"Hell to the no! Order us a pizza or something. I'm on my way!"  
  
With that, Starling hung up and tossed her phone into the passenger seat, grinning like she hadn't in days. For someone who didn't understand her terribly well, Mapp came frighteningly close.  
  
It wasn't until she arrived that Starling realized that she had cut their dialogue short before being told which room to go to. At the front desk, she explained the situation to the clerk, who phoned in to be sure before pointing her in the right direction.  
  
Seeing Mapp's face on the other side of that door was a sight for sore eyes. They studied each other a minute before embracing.  
  
"You know everything's gonna turn out all right, don't you?" her friend reassured her with a few empathetic pats.   
  
"As a matter of fact, I don't," Starling said with a quivering breath, allowing some of her root anxieties to shed at last. "How could it? I just hope real prison is a step up from the one I've been living in for ten years."  
  
"You're not going to prison."   
  
She snorted her disagreement. "Yeah…you're probably right. They'll let me off again, all because of my dazzling personality and numerous accomplishments, not to mention dozens of supporters and friends." Retracting from their hug, she sighed and shook her head, right hand coming up to caress her brow. "You know…I wish he had been more forthcoming in our chat back at the lake house. I could've avoided this mess."  
  
There wasn't much time to consider the events that transpired next, they happened so quickly. The walls suddenly seemed tight and desolate, cramped, but tolerable.  
  
"Perhaps I would have, had that been an option."  
  
All movement rapidly ceased within the room. Starling felt her heart stop abruptly, then similarly start pounding, as if she had just finished a good three miles on the course.   
  
The voice that was very much Hannibal Lecter continued from behind, moving as he stepped away from the door and into view, "However, if you'll recall, I was rather pressed for time. Besides, Clarice…" He stopped in front of her, beside Mapp, eyes burning into hers, making her heart beat faster still. "I don't think you could have come to all these…liberating conclusions, without some first hand experience."  
  
For a long beat, nothing stirred within the room. Mapp might as well have thrown herself out the window. Neither of them looked to her. Starling watched, still trying to pace herself, regarding the amusement dancing behind his eyes, and the seriousness. Her heart was still trying to keep up with her, but not successfully.  
  
"Ummm…Ardelia…" she said finally, not averting her gaze from his. "Do you have something to tell me?"  
  
"Hey, I told you that you needed a psychiatrist," Mapp replied. "Sorry I didn't mention that I had one ready."  
  
Unbelieving, Starling finally found her breath and the pounding within her chest started to subside. After everything caught up with her, she forced her eyes away from his, trading looks between her best friend and the object of her recent dishonor, absolutely stupefied. "I have definitely just entered the Twilight Zone…" she decided.   
  
  



	7. Propositions

The next few seconds passed slowly, Starling looking from Mapp to Dr. Lecter, trying to ascertain a connection but finding none. Dr. Lecter kept his gaze leveled at her, regarding his newly established alliance with her friend as nonexistent. They might as well have been alone in the room.  
  
Finally, when she was tired of summoning new ideas only to have logic beat them down, Starling shook her head and allowed her eyes to drop. "All right, all right," she conceded. "I give. What are you—" She glanced upward again, nodding in Mapp's direction, "—doing with her?"  
  
"Nothing funny, Clarice," Dr. Lecter replied with an amused smile, and she released some of her tension. His eyes glinted with familiar humor. "I guarantee you. A few—"  
  
Abruptly, she cut him off, almost without thinking. Starling's astonishment was in mid-transformation, trying to decide between irritation and relief. Instead, she turned to Mapp, acknowledging her fully for the first time since Dr. Lecter's grand entrance. "All right. Let me rephrase. What are you doing with him?"  
  
"It's a long story, girlfriend."  
  
"I can imagine. I don't recall him being on your top ten list, last we spoke." Without realizing it, her temper had flared. So many little things could trigger it these days. Starling didn't pause for self- evaluation. She was confused, slightly irritated, and, on a level, felt betrayed. Why hadn't Mapp told her during their conversation? Was everyone conspiring against her now?  
  
A soft touch on her shoulder deactivated her, coursing a shudder to ripple through her nerves. The breech of physical contact, despite the context, was welcome. It coaxed her to hazard a glance at him. Once their eyes connected, Starling released a breath, as well as her repression.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said softly, though not knowing for what for a minute. Forcing herself back to the present, she looked down. "I think anything just about now's pissing me off."  
  
"It's a normal reaction, Clarice. Come now, sit if you will." Courteously, Dr. Lecter motioned for the edge of the bed, turning to house himself in a rather uncomfortable chair. Once they locked gazes again, she reflected the same man she had known for a decade with the same air of arrogance, even if it was coated with compassion. For a fleeting instant, she didn't know whether to laugh or scream her fury. This man had no emotional reaction to any situation.  
  
That lent her pause. No, no…he had showed her one before.  
  
Before Starling could travel that road again, he spoke, driving her back to the present. "You have been keeping your wits about you, I see. Admirable. How does it feel to have probable cause for such a negative spotlight? Accusations singe, I'm sure, true or not. You and your ever- firm dedication to morality must be raging with unexplored ambiance."  
  
How typical. He manages her into these messes then asks her how that makes her feel. Starling nearly snickered to herself, still itching to know how this unlikely pact between two strangers—undeclared enemies—not to mention the closest people to her was formed. However, she decided it was best to comply. He wanted answers, of course. So did she.  
  
Nonetheless, she forfeited nothing lightly. When Starling raised her head again, her eyes shined like birthstones. "'The course of my disgrace and public shaming,' do you mean? I guess I really do lack perspective. How do you think it feels, Doctor Lecter?" When his eyes narrowed at her, she feigned a casual shrug. Cynicism struck her fiber, influencing her mouth with the wear and tear of ten neglected, exhausted years. "It feels great. Superb. I love it. Tell me something, Doctor. How does it feel to be right all the fucking time? Don't you get tired of it? Isn't it boring after a while? Predictable? Tedious? Or does the thrill of gloating renew its taste with every pinch?"  
  
In the corner, Mapp's eyes widened, almost flabbergasted. It occurred to Starling that she had never played witness to their casual banter, never fully comprehended the levels of unspoken understanding of this bizarre relationship. The look she delivered was one of utmost horror. Without having to speak, she betrayed herself. Her eyes read full warning, traveling nervously to Dr. Lecter, who wasn't paying her the least bit of attention. He hadn't so much as looked her way since they last spoke directly.  
  
Instead, his voice level, he replied calmly, "Now, now…you know I am above the timeless 'I told you so' repartee. I won't deny that it was entirely predictable, and that you should have seen it yourself. However, desire tends to fog your judgment, Clarice." The words hung unpleasantly in the air, and they exchanged meaningful glances. When the moment stretched and threatened to turn uncomfortable, he grinned solemnly and continued, "You clearly desired your place in the Bureau. There is no doubt that you deserved it. And now you're clouded with disillusionment. You're truly starting to walk in my footsteps. As for being right all the time, I do find it's a pleasant addition."  
  
"You should bet on horses," she replied when she could think of nothing else, fire drenched from her eyes, voice guttural. "Or get your own psychic hotline. Dr. Cleo."  
  
This felt good, the extremity of casual dialogue, talking to him without caring where her gun was or how she might wiggle him into a pair of handcuffs. Without having to think of stories or offers in which to contrive their humor. Just being Clarice Starling. That in itself was a liberating novelty.  
  
His eyes twinkled with challenge, as though reading her thoughts. "Not the most flattering occupation, Clarice. I do abhor those advertisements. I don't believe I would be living up to my reputation if I joined the Psychic Connection."  
  
"Psychic, psycho…same thing. You're already as annoying as hell…why not get rich off it?" At her words, Dr. Lecter's eyes widened dangerously. Starling bit her lower lip, tossing Mapp a glance and emitting a hearty laugh. "Good God, Ardelia!" she exclaimed. "You look like you're going to piss your pants."  
  
Her friend reddened considerably but didn't answer.  
  
"How did you two get here?" Starling asked finally. "And why are you together, if you're so scared of him, 'Delia?"  
  
"I'm afraid that might be at my blame," Dr. Lecter answered.  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised. Most things are."  
  
"Can't you two do this some other time?" Mapp finally erupted. "I don't get it…I just don't get it. And I don't care to get it." When she earned a gaze from Starling, she continued. "He found me. He'd been watching the news, obviously. And—"  
  
"You're trembling, Ms. Mapp," he intervened. "Would you prefer I tell the story?"  
  
"Fine." She shook her head lethargically. "Driving here was nuts. He kept scaring the shit out of me in the car."  
  
Starling pursed her lips together to control her mirth. "I'm surprised he didn't annoy the shit out of you." She looked back to Dr. Lecter, reflecting his dancing pupils. Whether he was enjoying the side- discussions, the direct and fearless statements made about his character, or the fact that he had succeeded in terrifying yet another individual was entirely trivial. It was most likely a combination of a number of things. "Anyway…continue."  
  
"Ah, well," he began. "Once your dilemma became public knowledge, I decided it would be a trifle discourteous to subject you to such dehumanization, especially since I was intimately connected. Oh, that's not to say that I did not toy with simply sitting back to watch your ruin, Clarice, and it would be fallacious to pretend that a glimmer of brief delight did not attack to see what I had always anticipated unfolding before my very eyes. It was the sort of triumph that both sings and smarts in one blow. However, in the end, I could not leave you to the media hounds, not when your intentions seemed so thoroughly noble. And yet, I similarly could not risk capture, or chance your spontaneous change of heart and foreseeable resentment. Thus, I determined the best approach was through the only person I know to hold your trust. I traveled to Denton, scouted for Ms. Mapp, and caught up with her in the parking lot after one of her conferences with a student's parents. A late night 'Open House' affair, I believe it was." Pausing, he turned to Mapp and arched his brows. "Feel free to intervene should I misinterpret something."  
  
Starling cracked a brief smile, despite stirring vibes of irritation at his admittance that he had nearly decided not to come. To simply sit back and enjoy her demise. A voice screamed within her that she hadn't wanted him to come, that it was more dangerous here, but knowing he had considered was bittersweet. Oh well. She likely deserved it.  
  
"I'm not going to butt in. No way in hell," Mapp declared, almost defensively. "You must be outta your…ummm…I'm not going to interrupt."  
  
"As you wish," Dr. Lecter returned simply, fastened in a warring gaze with Starling once more. "I admit, I had less than orthodox methods of gaining her attention. I—"  
  
"He snuck up behind me and held a fucking blade to my throat!" she screamed suddenly, despite the promise made seconds before. "Then he told me to drive home and not make a sound. I about crapped my pants!"  
  
"Funny how I seem to have a continuous adverse affect on your digestive system," he commented dryly.  
  
"Will someone please continue!" Starling snapped, though she was inwardly doubled over with laughter. For no reason in particular, the Addams Family theme struck her subconscious and began to play incessantly.  
  
Dr. Lecter was perversely agreeable and willing to comply. It was almost suspicious, but then it wasn't at all. If there was anything she had learned over the past ten years, it was his ever-persistent drive to be both insufferably exasperating and invariably unpredictable. "Certainly. Do you wish to continue, Ms. Mapp, or should I?"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"You sure? After all, you—"  
  
"Just continue, Doc! I'm shutting up. I promise."  
  
Starling thought about sharing her theory that Dr. Lecter had been locked away originally just to shut him up, but decided that enough was enough. Besides, she still had unanswered questions. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the old verse that time and tide wait for no man echoed.  
  
For the umpteenth time, she looked to him and saw amusement dancing in his pupils. "Go Doctor," she said softly, though demanding.  
  
"As you wish," he replied, making her fight off a smile at the thought. "I instructed her to drive to her home. Once there, I restrained her to a chair and allowed a few minutes of unbridled screaming for help. I know you haven't visited since her move, Clarice, but Ms. Mapp's home is quite secluded; far outside the city limits. Needless to say, no one heard a thing. She calmed when she saw I wielded no blade, that my Harpy was momentarily out of reach, and finally thought to ask to what she owed the pleasure."  
  
At that, Starling arched a skeptical eyebrow.  
  
"Actually," Mapp corrected. "I think I said, 'All right, fuck a duck, you win. What the hell are you doing here?' Something like that."  
  
"Mmm…yes. Artful use of language, I must say. Continuing, I told her that I was visiting on your behalf, Clarice. I explained the situation I had put you in and estimated the events to follow. I told her what you were facing, and that I had your best interest in mind," Dr. Lecter said slowly, holding her with his eyes, all tease aside.  
  
Subconsciously, Mapp broke the tender moment. "Which I didn't believe, of course. He got you into this shit, right? I figured why the hell would he be trying to get you out?"  
  
"You really are true to your word, aren't you?" He remarked snidely. "If you would prefer to tell the story, by all means—"  
  
"No! No…go right ahead."  
  
For Starling, watching the continuous struggle for authority in the storytelling process only reminded her how very much they both, albeit differently, influenced her life, what they meant to her. Mapp would always be the voice of reason. If it couldn't be done her way, then there wasn't any point in wasting your time. The constant 'tell it like it is' approach to any situation was something no sensible person would miss. Everything, it seemed, had been easier when they shared a duplex. And Dr. Lecter for his seriousness and compassion, his interest and wit, his insight and, yes, even his ego. How many years had she lived relying on his advice, even if he wasn't standing beside her? What was a life without that? What sort of life had it been?  
  
Watching him now made her realize how very important his voice was to her, his input. While it had always been there, the understanding merged into consciousness with such abrupt sharpness that it forced her to pause in reflection and catch her breath.  
  
Knowing she could hide nothing from him, Starling reflected no surprise when Dr. Lecter reacted to her impulsive, however subtle huff. Instead, he simply nodded as his lips formed the word, "Later." And while he had not spoken, she shivered just the same.  
  
"After I explained my disposition to Ms. Mapp," he continued, not breaking his professional sheath, "and several reassurances and a few examples of my noble intentions, she finally conceded to assist me in arriving relatively unscathed on my white stallion."  
  
"A white Toyota, actually, but who needs details?" Mapp said with a shrug.  
  
Starling's eyes narrowed in spite of herself. "You don't strike me as the white stallions…or Toyotas type, Doctor."  
  
Shooting her a grin, he shrugged, and the single motion both infuriated her and made her sear with endearment. "I'm doing my best to remain conspicuous, Clarice. A man must improvise. It would seem a tad suspicious if a masked visitor arrived on the back of Cerberus, wouldn't you say?"  
  
She barked a laugh, shaking her head. "I was scared shitless you were going to do something like this."  
  
That insufferable smile of his! How could he appear thoughtful, arrogant, sympathetic, superior, and utterly irresistible in the simple twitch of the lips? "Like what?" he asked inevitably, coaxing an eye roll out of her. He knew damn well what.  
  
"Like this! Come to see me…whether by horseback, in a Toyota, or with the company of a three-headed dog. Do you have any idea how closely I'm being monitored? Hell, there might be a SWAT team outside this hotel room."  
  
"I took all the necessary precautions into consideration," Dr. Lecter assured her. "As far as the world needs to know – or doesn't, but that's another issue – you are simply visiting a friend from out of town. I also regarded the possibility that your recent plight was simply a lure to provoke me to come to your aid, which is why Ms. Mapp's phone call was absolutely essential."  
  
"You listened?"  
  
"Every word."  
  
Starling wondered if Dr. Lecter had sat with his ear tentatively close to the phone or relied on his eerie accuracy from across the room, but decided the next minute that he would have tried to scare Mapp in every way imaginable. Having a madman's notorious teeth so close to so many pressure points when her insides were already rebelling must have unnerved her to no end. Funny how the same madman's mouth pressed to hers in a moment of undeclared passion could raise none of those fears within her. Peril was more apparent then, and the clock was ticking. She glanced to her friend, expecting another comment about the nether regions.  
  
When Mapp called her looking intently, she blinked in confusion and finally smiled. "Yes, he did scare the shit out of me."  
  
"My good word seems to be losing its credibility," Dr. Lecter considered with a mock sigh, though it was easily deciphered that he was amused, even pleased, that he could frighten without being frightening. "Even if I don't recall jeopardizing it."  
  
"So what now?" Starling asked when she saw Mapp was going to snap a reply. No need to go on a power play. She learned that lesson long ago and was still reaping the affects.  
  
"Well, this is fun," her friend said drolly, more to herself. "Throw in a keg and a couple of chickens and you have prom night."  
  
Mapp intentionally ignored the stares that comment deserved.  
  
"That depends, Clarice," Dr. Lecter observed, dismissing her friend again, leaning forward, almost dangerously. "Do you still want my help, or has the price been too much for you?"  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "What the fuck do you think, genius?"  
  
Another rich laugh, another look of utter paranoia from Mapp.  
  
"Pardon me if I must ask you to reaffirm yourself ever so often, my dear. I did live with your reasoning for ten years, did I not? How am I to know there's not an inkling of morality writhing within you, just aching to be discovered?"  
  
This was sinfully gratifying. Even when she was knee high in shit, she could still manage to have a good time. Rising to the challenge, Starling perked both brows and retorted, "Yes, because that makes sense. Let's not only lose my job, but the escape from my job."  
  
"Am I an escape, Clarice?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
"I only offered advice. Are you suggesting a hidden innuendo?"  
  
"From you?" she scoffed cynically. "Never. I laugh at the very thought."  
  
His eyes twinkled at such careless though trusting defiance. "Ah, a Freudian slip, then?"  
  
"Why ask me? You seem to have all the answers."  
  
From the corner, Mapp erupted again. "PLEASE! Doctor, do her ass a favor and take it with you, wherever you're going. Starling, stop being your usual stubborn self and admit that you want to go. One of you…both of you…knock it off before you give me a fucking heart attack!"  
  
The corners of Dr. Lecter's mouth tugged in a tight smile. "You are easily intimidated, aren't you?" he asked pointedly.  
  
That coaxed a scowl out of her, a look Starling knew well. With strength and respite in her tone, Mapp replied firmly, "Do you think I would've told you to shut up if I was intimidated? No, I just don't see what's so goddamned funny. You two are just wasting time."  
  
A swift knock at the door swiftly stole whatever retort lay coiled on Starling's tongue, and she felt her innards tremble. Amazingly, she failed to gasp, the tapping occurring too quickly to really make her reflect that the everyday sound should not exist in this room. When her breath froze in her throat, her eyes finally tore from Mapp's eyes to Dr. Lecter, but he was up and across the room, entering the lavatory though not shutting the door. That would be suspicious.  
  
Again came the knocking. Not a word was shared between them. Starling hurriedly reclined and ruffled the blankets on the bed, rolling to turn down the sheets on the other. She had just flicked on the television and was casually flipping through channels when the rapping came once more, this time accompanied by a voice.  
  
"Pizza!"  
  
The air, if possible, grew thicker. Starling locked gazes with Mapp, pursing her lips to keep the excited giggle of relief from escaping. There was still that lingering possibility that…  
  
Mapp opened the door. A greasy kid no more than nineteen stood at the threshold, looking rather irritated at the delay.  
  
"Pizza?" he said impatiently.  
  
Starling couldn't help it. Relief coursed her through her. All at once she felt like laughing, crying, singing, dancing, screaming…never had anything scared her that much. In a flash, it would have been over. Laughter poured from opened lips, and she doubled over in small quivers of liberation.  
  
"What's wrong with her?" the kid asked dumbly, only increasing her hysterics.  
  
"Did you order a pizza, 'Delia?" she asked when she had gained control of herself.  
  
How her friend had kept from expressing the relief that poured through her eyes, Starling would never know but always envy. Perhaps because of everyone there, she had the littlest to lose. "No. I was going to," Mapp explained, turning back to the kid. "You must have the wrong room, sonny. Try a few doors down." She leaned over to examine the ticket. "Yeah, see? This is room twenty-three. That's a five."  
  
"Sorry. My bad." As the kid looked upward again to gage Starling's laughing fit, she saw his eyes wander instead to the mirror that hung loosely above the dresser, frown in consideration, and finally freeze.  
  
And just like that, it was over.  
  
"Fuck no," she whispered, following his gaze, dread enveloping her once more. "Shit!"  
  
The kid plopped the pizza box at Mapp's feet, wide-eyed as a scream pierced the air. He performed an about-face and took off down the hallway, yelling incoherencies that would soon make sense.  
  
"Oh dear," Dr. Lecter sighed, stepping into the hall again.  
  
"Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck," Starling growled. "Fuck, we gotta haul ass. What were you doing standing right there in the fucking doorway?"  
  
"Have you noticed that your liking to profanity increases when you're anxious?" he asked. "And ironically limits to one word, all at the same time?"  
  
Mapp tripped over the pizza box, her eyes wide with alarm. "Enough of that! I gotta get you two out of the city."  
  
"Out of the city, Ms. Mapp? Think globally. The country is preferable."  
  
"Will you two PLEASE stop talking like I'm not here?" Starling hissed, her mind warping. Small goosebumps spread across her skin, and her heart had not yet recovered. "I hadn't decided anything yet, and—"  
  
Mapp shook her head defiantly. "You don't really have a choice, Starling. I gotta get out of here, too. I'll be in deep shit, in case you hadn't considered that. Aiding and abetting fucking Hannibal Lecter…that's beautiful. Girl, if you want out, there's your ticket," she nodded absently toward the doctor. "Take it or leave it." 


	8. The Get Away

Granted there wasn't much time to consider. Starling shared a long gaze with Mapp, reading her options clearly. In an instant, she saw her life divided into two categories; saw the trash that could become of it. While it was true that any imminent decision was miles from being concluded, she had to force herself to believe that this was the path she would have chosen.  
  
In truth, Starling had never been more confused. Having her verdict return without her approval or consent eliminated the long and often useless process of internal wrestling with forbidden thoughts, but it also made her shiver with recognition. This was it. No turning back. It wasn't to say she couldn't leave him, but it was the conventional end of her orderly life. For so long, she had watched as it loomed in the future, coming too close for comfort at times but never making contact. Without pausing for a breath, she was slammed with alteration. She, who was so accustomed to conformity, who had never really emerged into the comprehension that she was very much alone in her standing.  
  
Starling tore her eyes away from Mapp and looked to Dr. Lecter. There, she acknowledged his similar conclusions and was startled to note that he shared her insights. Perhaps even he had been unprepared to take her with him. Unprepared, but certainly not unwilling. Shimmers of excitement and hope glimmered within his familiar gaze. Danger, of course, streaks of elegance and pride, never without the flavor of arrogance. Everything she had come to expect from him over the years. Everything she had come to cherish, despite how she fervently denied it.  
  
In a flash, she saw herself walking up to a vacant house while tortuous thoughts danced through a darkened mind. She heard herself conversing silently - not always - with the all-too-familiar voice that had housed pleasantly in her subconscious, foretelling her bleak future without sympathy but blunt honesty and truth. She saw herself hunched over, peering into a mailbox and finding the first step to her release, and how costly the price of freedom had turned out to be.  
  
Then she saw Pearsall and her face distorted in mixed annoyance and disgust.  
  
Perchance considering she came to her end, or perhaps they were running out of time, but the doctor's eyes widened significantly. "We don't have long," he muttered at last, the first thing said in what felt like hours. "You will have ample time to reflect and regret once we leave the city. That is, unless, you prefer to brave the law you know so well? The choice is yours."  
  
"I just love the way you two are lounging about, acting like nothing's wrong," Mapp grumbled. "I dunno about you, but I'm getting outta here. I got way more than I bargained for on this trip, anyhow."  
  
"Right," Starling muttered subconsciously. "Right." It was that simple. One word could separate her from the decree she had so believed in as she willingly submitted to the side of law enforcement she had never intended to witness. "Doctor, let's get the hell out of here. We'll talk about this."  
  
"I look forward to it. After you, my dear."  
  
In the parking lot, Starling started for her car, Dr. Lecter at her side. For whatever reason, it seemed important. Side-by-side, both unarmed, in collaboration for the first time since a girl threatened to become the next experiment of a temporary line of style. She felt good at his side, as though she had strived all her life to make it this far. That thought was banished quickly as she reminded herself that she had no way of knowing that this was how it was to end, and that life-and-death situations were hardly the time for such consideration.  
  
Life and death, freedom and incarceration - same argument.  
  
As they neared the car, new realization dawned on her. The authorities would recognize this vehicle anywhere. Despair grasped her, and for the first time, the stirrings of panic accepted the form of tangibility. Her breath constricted in her throat and her nails dug ineffectively into open palms.  
  
"This is hopeless," she muttered.  
  
"I don't believe so, Clarice," Dr. Lecter disagreed softly. When she looked up, eyes wide and brows perked in challenge, he indicated with a cool nod of his head to Mapp approaching, having reached the same conclusion. Starling stared blankly at her friend in relative shock as she withdrew her keys and tossed them in their direction.  
  
"Don't say anything, girl," her friend warned, snatching the Mustang's away from her fluently. "Just get out of here. Ya'll are cutting it way too fine." As though in correlation with her statement, the first wails of sirens howled through the night air. Time was of the essence.  
  
"Thank you, Ardelia," her companion said gracefully. "You have been essentially helpful throughout this escapade, and I appreciate and recognize everything you have forfeited and lost. Should you need help, don't hesitate to ask. At the very least, I will remember to send you a wonderful thank-you note."  
  
Mapp was a rare receiver of gratitude, thus she brushed it off without considering. Without wanting to consider. "Don't send me anything. Don't offer me anything. I don't want it. I didn't do this for you, you know. Just promise me you won't scare the shit out of her." She locked eyes with Starling again. "He's rather good at that."  
  
"I gather." Starling sighed, the same feelings of trepidation coming over her. Each passing second reminded her how very much her life had changed in such a short amount of time, and she found herself confronted with the discomfiting sensation that she might learn to regret it. Even more was the notion that this was the break, the push she was waiting for, and that she would later scold herself for neglecting to realize it sooner. "I love you, Ardelia."  
  
"If you love me so much then get out of here! I don't want to get my ass hauled to jail for no reason." Closing the subject, she turned and waved over her shoulder, her back to them, closing the space between herself and the Mustang.  
  
The white Toyota was convenient and inconspicuous. Starling's eyes followed Mapp as she roared out of the parking lot as she tried desperately not to react to the man settling to her right.  
  
"All set for the off?" he asked pleasantly. She fought the temptation to look at him, too numb with new escalating sensations and internal battles. It felt as though her innards were wrenching into a knot that would take weeks to untangle.  
  
Nodding, though she wasn't sure to whom, Starling sighed shortly and answered, "No time like the present." At the wheel, she turned the ignition and pulled away.  
  
"Indeed. Time and tide waits for no man."  
  
"Except you, perhaps." The words escaped her without the need of forethought. When she realized she had spoken them aloud, she pursed her lips in concentration, her eyes focused obsessively on the road. He rumbled beside her in gentle amusement.  
  
"If only, Clarice, if only."  
  
She found herself smiling.  
  
The last string was severed. It was left to her, Dr. Lecter, and the open road.  
  
A period of silence respectable reflection settled for the first few minutes. The gentle hum of the engine was companionable, waning away the impending epoch of personal judgment. Starling nibbled in thought on her lip, registering how her heart pounded still, and wondered if that could be accredited to the subsiding sound of wailing sirens or the man who sat dangerously close to her.  
  
To dismiss the danger they were in was presumptuous and liable to get them both captured or worse, but she couldn't help but feel safe now that the hotel was behind them. Her thoughts stayed distractedly with Mapp for a few minutes, her conscience weighing for bringing her friend into this. No, she reminded herself, that wasn't right. She hadn't asked for any of it.  
  
A voice she knew all too well merged back to life, screaming the more likely plight. The inner rationalization that this was entirely his fault.  
  
Of course, Dr. Lecter had keen perception on every inkling that rattled within her constantly unnerved system. While his eyes remained locked on his clasped hands, he was still perfectly in tune with her continuous and every-growing menial conflict. A tight sigh escaped his throat and she felt herself clamp up in recognition that the silence was coming to an end.  
  
"You do realize that as much as you would like to, abiding to lay blame at my feet brings you no closer to finding your desperate sanctuary," he said softly, discarding the need for lengthy prefaces. They were far beyond that. They were far beyond many things.  
  
"I know," she conceded with a nod, not having the will or strength to deny her fraudulent thoughts. "But hell, life sure would be easier if I could."  
  
"Hmmm...yes. I suppose it would. The archetypal villain at the actual ends of probable cause for the work of life's prejudice." Dr. Lecter sighed again, raising his gaze to the road before them. "Sadly, reality isn't that simple, Clarice."  
  
As though stung, she shot him a defensive, almost hurt look, but the impression was brief. Her eyes directed to the traffic again shortly. "You know I didn't mean it like that."  
  
"Of course you did. You said so yourself just seconds ago." When he fell silent once more, she hazarded another glance at him, catching his eyes this time and reflecting pools of what could be sadness, indifference or hope. Even after ten years, he was ambiguous to her. How well did she know him, if at all? Enough to trust him with her life, enough to throw what was left of her career out the window without remorse. Enough to concede that joining him in this escapade was the better option when she could have let the police have him.  
  
But past that? She had no idea what he was thinking, and while this excited her on a level, it was similarly disconcerting.  
  
When he spoke again, his voice was passive, which she found perhaps more terrifying than fury. Heaven knew he had every right to sting her with venom. Instead, his tone was level and calm. "You know better than anyone that life, despite all its wonderfully inadequate attempts, will never mold into a fairy tale, even if you deserve one." Dr. Lecter paused again briefly, but she knew he was not finished. "I wonder, Clarice, if you are more irritated at yourself for the elicitation of such lack of difference, or at the inability for the world to see things with your level of liberated vision. Who should conform to whom? It's you and them."  
  
A lump was rapidly forming in her throat, not budging despite her attempts to swallow it. "Is it, Doctor?" she asked bravely, betraying her slick palms and ever-increasing heart rate. "I could've sworn that I just left the them in your equation."  
  
"Did you?" Dr. Lecter answered coolly. "Did you really? Or did you just seize the only available out? The only option that was more appealing than prospective jail time? Hmmm?"  
  
"That's bogus," she snapped. "I had the option of staying and trying to apprehend you - again. I didn't have to sit through your explanations. I didn't have to answer your letter."  
  
"You stated earlier that I was an escape."  
  
Starling's eyes narrowed, though her pulse was racing, even as her heart stopped hammering so feverishly at the prospect of being hunted by the law. The sirens were barely audible now, and they had recently crossed the Potomac, safely out of Washington. "I thought we established that that was a Freudian slip," she fired back challengingly.  
  
"You also said that you still wanted my assistance," Dr. Lecter continued as though she hadn't spoken.  
  
"A cross-country trip in a Toyota wasn't exactly what I had in mind."  
  
"Nor I. But I am not so terribly high maintenance that--"  
  
"Whatever!" Starling barked a snicker. It was the first laugh to escape her since their earlier duel, and the sound echoed like the release of burden through the small, compact atmosphere. "That's the biggest crock of--"  
  
"No need to be vulgar, my dear," he cut her off abruptly, though she could tell he was laughing with her. "Another issue to discuss in the future. I was merely demonstrating that while recent events might have spoiled my immediate plans, I am not beyond amendable."  
  
Starling rolled her eyes. "Well, of course! How does this hamper you? You've lost nothing, `cept perhaps whatever's left of that sanity of yours if you're going to put up with my yapping. I've lost..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"My life!"  
  
A short silence settled over them.  
  
"Tell me, Clarice. Tell me about your life. This splendid institution you have had so ruthlessly stolen from you. What will there be to miss? Rumors, allegations, inequality, corruptibility, deceit...the list seems endless."  
  
His words stung mercilessly but she forced herself to endure it without flinching. Instead, she allowed a minute to pass before clearing her throat and suggesting, "How very shrewd. And those are just the good qualities."  
  
She felt his eyes linger over her in scrutiny for a beat longer than she was comfortable but very familiar with. Still, she didn't blink or even return his gaze. When he began chuckling, her tension dissipated. "As slippery as always, Former Agent Starling."  
  
"Wouldn't want to become predictable or anything."  
  
"Hmmm...yes." His eyes had not moved from her face, finally coaxing her to glance over. Embedded in warm pupils was the fondness she had grown accustomed to over the years, not masking but coinciding with agitation and wonderment. Even now she had him on his toes.  
  
It was easy to keep surprising someone when you continuously surprised yourself.  
  
"Do I frighten you, Clarice?"  
  
Starling's eyes narrowed, flabbergasted by both the spontaneity and content of his question. "What do you think?"  
  
"Answer me honestly." A strangely serious tone had beset him. Best not to ignore it.  
  
Courteously, she forced herself to confront it like any other inquiry. How many levels were there to this question? She didn't want to consider. Quicker than that, he wouldn't tolerate an answer laced in metaphors and fancy space fillers. "You don't scare me, Doctor," she replied sincerely. "I think you might if you really wanted to, and even so, I scare myself more than you ever could." She shook her head, startled by the truth in her own statement, but continued. "After all, who's crazier? The madman or the lunatic that follows him?"  
  
All right, so she stole that from Star Wars. Big deal. It was true nonetheless. Either way, she wasn't surprised when he didn't accuse her of plagiarism. Dr. Lecter would never understand the beauty of such films.  
  
That made her crack a brief smile that she wiped away fiercely before he could see it.  
  
"You knew all this before you came to visit Ardelia," he accused softly.  
  
"I did."  
  
"And yet you still fear the loss of something so abusive?"  
  
"Don't tell me I hurt your feelings, Dr. Lecter," she drawled dismissively. "Just because you can face the winds of change without blinking doesn't mean that the whole world has to. Despite how much I should be grateful, should be this and should be that, that doesn't make any difference in the fact that I was forced into it. I had no choice." She tossed another glance at him, stirred but not surprised by that the fog that masterfully shaded his thoughts had cast over his pupils.  
  
"What do you believe you would have done, Clarice? Suppose the evening had progressed uninterrupted, and I had stood before you and offered my hand in escape. What would you have said?"  
  
"It's too late for presumptions."  
  
"I'm well aware of that. But who can truly label this as a presumption? Have I performed any ill-conceived activity that would lead you to believe this is the final end? That I intend to tie you up and force you to remain obediently at my side?" Repulsion at the implication rolled off his tongue alongside his words, sending small shivers of cold recognition through her body. "Surely you know that only the location has changed. My proposition, the very same I offered since you first opened my letter, remains unbothered." The test in his voice was stern and to the point.  
  
Distantly, Starling saw herself as of an hour ago, sitting on the semi-comfortable edge of a hotel bed, sharing long looks with Dr. Lecter as thoughts collided in frenzied pandemonium. A million sensations soared through her tired form. There were two distinct paths before her. One, she could move on successfully and alone, stand to brave the winds of her new storm. After all, as a former law officer, avoiding the stylistic patterns of the ever-worshipped textbooks was really the only step required. She would need money, of course, but Starling had never been a big spender. Once she acquired what she needed, she could live comfortably off that with the assistance of odd jobs or whatever line of work she could manage. It was the defined opportunity of emancipation she had long awaited. A new life far from anyone who had ever heard her name.  
  
Just how likely was that?  
  
There was certain liberation in knowing she could do it should she need to. However, Starling discerned, she had known since she saw him when she entered the hotel room that she would never be satisfied with merely that. That which she had settled for her entire life.  
  
And still, even now as they drove away, seemingly together, further and further from the home she had called her own, Starling didn't know exactly what it was he wanted from her. She had her ideas, of course, and was fairly certain of their accuracy. What troubled her was the knowledge of her reaction.  
  
As always, his eyes were on her, ponderously studying, peeling away the shards and layers from her overly broken heart.  
  
How much is one person allowed to hurt in a lifetime?  
  
"I still want your help," Starling croaked at last, her throat raw from the emotional clot that now resided in her throat. "Of course I do. And more besides. If I hadn't wanted that, I wouldn't have gotten in the car."  
  
"No? Are you sure?" There was no real surprise in his tone, no hidden innuendo, which similarly failed to catch her off guard. "You would have left me to your hounds, then, had there not been something tied into deal for your advantage?"  
  
"No!" she growled, her voice stuck between octaves. "You would think that, though, wouldn't you?"  
  
Dr. Lecter made no attempt to either defend his position or deny the accusation. Instead, he shrugged with infuriating simplicity, eyes lingering on her even as she had to devote her full attention to the road. This man never wavered. "Then pray tell me, Ex Special Agent Starling, if I am so misinformed."  
  
Something within her snapped as angry words took the place of the lump in her throat, but she bit her tongue and harshly commanded herself not to release them just yet. The car swerved with impact as she steered to the shoulder and roughly set the gears in park. Gallingly, the doctor had not reflected change in the slightest. Starling twisted herself to face him in the seat, knowing he would not believe her unless he could hear it on her lips and read it in her eyes. Words were released without forethought or consideration. As for now, she didn't care if the whole world knew.  
  
"I would've let you have the goddamn car," she said slowly, as though speaking to a detrimental child. "This one. You and Ardelia would've had to haul ass out of town. This was my mess and I brought you into it, or I let you bring yourself into it. I didn't have to answer your letter, first or second. Each time the price rose just a little bit, but I kept paying." Starling closed her eyes, not so much to dramatically establish the emphatic aspects of her argument as a product of genuine irritation. "The truth that's killing me, the truth that's easier to blame on you is I would've stayed had I not wanted to be here. That's what's driving me up the wall. The fact that I had that opportunity and the knowledge that I didn't take it out of manipulation." Eyes locked fiercely with his, she didn't take time to analyze the separate flames soaring behind each pupil. She was on a roll. "I tried that once before, Doctor, and I wasn't too thrilled with where it got me. I don't make the  
same mistake twice - I make new ones. I wouldn't use you as an alternative to jail time. That's no fair to either of us." Her teeth clinched. "Is this what you wanted? Is this enough? Or should I write it in blood? I maintain that I had no choice, but what bothers me more is that I know it was inevitable and I would've gone with you anyway. Thrown away what there was of my life and gone ahead with you, wherever you wanted to go. Because I hate what they've done to me. I hate what I've become." At last, her temper started to dwindle. As she took deep breaths, reclaiming herself, she was relieved that he didn't seize the chance to speak. There was still something she had to get out. When she was sufficiently calmed, Starling looked up once more and said with agonizing sincerity, "If I didn't want to be here I wouldn't be. And. You. Know. It."  
  
The air around her fell still as words melted into dark nothingness. she held his gaze firmly, knowing hers had to reflect the same conviction she spoke. It soared with dying guilt through her veins, the last of the confessions, the farewell to society. So long sweet society.  
  
Fuck society.  
  
Fire soared tantalizingly within his eyes, making her skin tingle. When at last he parted his lips to speak, Starling drew in a sharp breath, as though pausing to hear the final beatings of her heart.  
  
"Do you really think, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said softly, his eyes caressing and his tone excruciatingly passive, "that I would have allowed you to stand aside and accept the fall for my lapse? Had it come to that, as you said, I would have gone to extremes to get you out of there, with or without your consent."  
  
In relief and fondness, Starling released her breath and grinned solemnly, a grin of a thousand images. A thousand burdens. A thousand years. "I know," she whispered warmly. "But why? Why, Doctor? Why go to all this trouble? I've caused you more than its worth. What did you hope to gain from it?"  
  
"I wanted to help you."  
  
"I know it's not that simple."  
  
"Then you know what I hoped to gain." Dr. Lecter settled back slightly as though the matter was of no more gravity than discussions of the Superbowl. "As you have known since I first wrote you. My goal has never been indistinct, Clarice."  
  
"To you, maybe," she retorted shortly. "You know, Doc--"  
  
In incisive disagreement, he shook his head. "No, no...you knew then and you know now. The question has structured and played time and time again inside that wonderfully complex mind of yours. All the while you are trapped in a sea of bad headlines and rather wild allegations, and despite your shroud of innocence, you see and recognize the truth, tuning out the rest of the mindless gossip. You have known for ten years, since Memphis. Certainly any additional confusion was eliminated at the late Mr. Krendler's lake house. After all, Clarice, why would I risk it? My life, or better, my freedom? What possible motives would I have, other than what is obvious?" As silence overtook them briefly once more, Starling recognized that her pulse had again elevated and her heart was hammering. Yes, she knew what he meant. At last he was returning the favor of being very frank, even if his message was coded in images that he did not thoroughly want deciphered.  
  
Still, there was that rebellious strand of defiance lingering within her somewhere, and she called on it now. The mood was too serious.  
  
"What is it you're trying to say?" Despite her attempts, her voice came out damp and emotional. She was grateful when his eyes did not cast darkly in shadow.  
  
"You have your options laid out ahead of you, Clarice. You see them clearly; you have these long years. Conformity and the so-called promise of refuge, what is safe and known, even under these terms. It's there, waiting for one last fatal chance." The look on his face was positively shattering. Starling's previously immobile hands that lay obediently in her lap suddenly jerked with motion, her left reaching to grip the steering wheel. When he began speaking again she dug her nails deep into the leather.  
  
"And then, of course, there is me."  
  
Impatience ebbed her control, though she didn't know what to expect when it imminently snapped. "Why?" she heard herself ask.  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyes widened, as though he couldn't believe she possessed the audacity to press him still, but still reflected the admiration behind it. She was wrestling for words, the rights to those words, words she needed to hear if they were ever to progress beyond this continuous struggle for dominance. If ever they were to maintain down this road, down the path to escape, and out the door to the rest of their lives.  
  
And he knew it, of course, which was why he enjoyed toying with her so. "Why what?"  
  
"Why are you there, down that path you mentioned? Why are you still here? Why are you always here, even and especially with every bitchy and naïve thing I've done to you? Why not give me what I deserve; Lord knows I've signed my own sentence more times than I can count. Why?"  
  
At that, he bristled, shaking his head stubbornly. "You know the answer to that, Clarice."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"I love you."  
  
The next thing Starling was aware of, she had been pulled across the seat and into his waiting arms. Or had she pounced him? It didn't matter. Newly unleashed liberation soared through her, freeing her at last from all prior constraints. The ghosts of old halls and loyalties died, not for the sake of being loved, but for the knowledge of what was mutually shared. With the release granted and the wonderful feel of his mouth moving against hers, nothing of the past or future mattered a damn. Now, with the barrier finally broken, all she cared about was seizing this long repressed fervor. It was unlike any kiss she had ever given or received in her life, and she knew, entangled in his arms that tightened as for fear she would drift away, that there was no other place she would rather be.  
  
Then her cell phone rang. 


	9. The Long and Winding Road

A/N: Special thanks to my sister for looking over this for me.  
  
~~~  
  
The shrill persistence in the air took a minute to identify, so lost was she in the unexpected softness yet similarly controlling force of his lips on hers. Their kiss was nothing as she remembered, though she supposed things had changed a bit since the last they shared. As she began to process this interruption, a flash of annoyance overlapped the more plausible rush of fear. Starling heard the phone as though it were far away, and had nearly forgotten that it was still in her possession. Pulling away from his delicious mouth with aching reluctance, she began to reach for her purse and was suspended briefly by a cautious hand. Her skin tingled in affect. She wondered if contact would always ensue an adverse power over her senses.  
  
The look in his eyes stressed similar irritation at this untimely disruption, and while she had not yet calmed, a shared gaze with this man reminded her of the very real danger they were still in. It was easy to dismiss their surroundings and the circumstances in the heat of good dialogue—amongst other things—making it distant but no less perilous.  
  
"It might be Ardelia," Starling muttered, more to herself. The small atmosphere of the car had yet to cease spinning. A sharp ache up her spine shot her from Cloud Nine to reality, and she noted duly that she was still twisted awkwardly across the front seat, and that his other harm crushed her against him, securing her in his lap.  
  
"Would she call?" his voice hummed lowly in her ear, reflecting as both cautious and seductive with minimal effort. Starling tried ineffectually not to shiver hard in response. "Especially now?"  
  
"Maybe—to warn us."  
  
The phone rang to persistence, chilling her still-flushed skin. Finally fishing it out of her purse, she eyed the howling mess of electronic buzzing thoughtfully before glancing again to Dr. Lecter. "Whoever it is has terrible timing."  
  
Smiling softly, he nodded his agreement. There was yielding kindness buried within twinkling eyes. "We can compensate lost time later, Clarice." It sounded like a promise.  
  
In the darkness of the vehicle, performing menial tasks such as answering the phone suddenly became complicated. She was still recovering her breath from their achingly sweet—however brief—kiss. Somehow she managed to tear her eyes away from his long enough to adjust the settings, illuminating the atmosphere with a light green glow to see who was calling.  
  
A devastatingly familiar number flashed against her vision. The color drained from her face, and her eyes flickered twice: once in panic and again in irritation. Dryly, she glanced up, leveling her gaze with Dr. Lecter's in grim annoyance. "It's Pearsall," she reported. "And I doubt it's to wish me the best."  
  
"Would he call out of courtesy?" the doctor asked, his tone deliberately low and soothing, should she lose her wits and succumb to fear at last of the danger they were in. "To warn you that I have been sighted?"  
  
"I don't know." Fleetingly, Starling berated herself for their lapse in neglecting radio broadcasts. Dialogue and confessions had eclipsed the more tangible menace. "I didn't think he had this number…I bought the phone because—"  
  
"Yes, Ms. Mapp told me. To avoid numerous eavesdroppers on private conversations."  
  
"What should we do?"  
  
Dr. Lecter arched his brows and nodded at the wailing device in her grasp. "It's entirely up to you, Clarice. I suspect you might enjoy venting some wan frustration. Do you recognize the number, where he is calling from?"  
  
"It's his cell," she said immediately. "He's in his car. He only uses his cell in his car, it seems. Must be headed to the hotel. I hope the hotel."  
  
"Do what you will." His smile was controlled and deceiving. "If you answer, I would advise that you start the car and continue. We wouldn't want to give your friends too much of a lead."  
  
Returning his smile in counterpoint to the melting gravity of their recent verbal toss, Starling raised the phone to her ear, silencing its shrill. She purposely stalled a minute, listening to Pearsall's agitated breath on the other line, her smile turning wry. It was as though he was sitting beside her, the image her mind conjured was so vivid. Time after time, she had stood in his presence as he ranted, his breath emitting in the same impatient, ragged style as someone fed him more bad news. With illusory calmness, she prepared herself for whatever was in store, and finally answered. "Pronto."  
  
Dr. Lecter smirked wickedly, and he winked at her.  
  
"Agent Starling, I presume?"  
  
It was the world's greatest turn-off, next to the deceased Paul Krendler. For a minute, she didn't know if it was more appropriate to roll her eyes in persisting agitation or laugh at her former employer's lasting antics. The only thing that didn't seem fitting – ironically – was fear. There would be plenty of time for that later.  
  
Just hearing his insufferable tone made her flush with cold anger, tainted by a decade of resentment. Transiently, she was caught between hanging up and screaming into the receiver. Control ebbed, just with that, begging to be forgotten. The reimbursement of a thousand times before, a thousand wrongs, a thousand misconducts, things she had no power of, couldn't speak against, respectfully. However, she bit her tongue and calmed herself, grasping her control, for she knew it was all she had. Though she wasn't quite ready to compromise her rather telling position, Starling forced herself to wiggle deferentially to her side of the car. She felt cold all over for the sudden loss of Dr. Lecter's shielding warmth.  
  
"Mr. Pearsall," she replied at last, once comfortable. As per the doctor's instruction, she started the ignition and pulled off the road. Even if the hounds were far behind them, it was unwise to sit around and allow them time to cover lost tracks. She tossed a glance to her companion once they were on the road and smiled, eyes not lingering long enough to wait for a return. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"I hope I'm catching you at home," Pearsall answered nastily—his tone indicating foreknowledge that he knew perfectly well where she was and in whose company. Likewise, she could tell that he was struggling for control, fighting the urge to reach through the phone and strangle her. The feeling was beyond mutual.  
  
"What if I say I'm going out for pizza?"  
  
"It'd be the wiser. You're smart enough to know not to leave the city. Not now." His voice battled staticy distance and reception between the phones and the typical howls of traffic.  
  
"Damn straight," Starling agreed, coaxing a hum from Dr. Lecter, which she ignored. His alleviated senses undoubtedly allowed him to construe everything that was being said, and she couldn't risk reacting to all of his reactions.  
  
"Hmmm…yes. So Ms. Mapp has indicated."  
  
A cold streak flashed through her, and her mocking bravado vanished. Without glancing to Dr. Lecter, she knew he discerned her friend's position. At this latest break, she felt a rush of fear followed immediately by irritation. In an instant, millions of angry words had housed in her throat, each beckoning for release. However, she clinched her instinctive reaction, leveling her tone and finally glancing to the doctor, eyes confirming what she already knew.  
  
"Funny story," Pearsall continued. "I'm sure you'll get a kick out of it. I just received a call at home. Evidently, a pizza delivery boy reported a Hannibal Lecter sighting when he was on call to the Pennsylvania House. Even more interesting, it appears that it was in Ardelia Mapp's room. Know anything about that?"  
  
"Kids say the darndest things," Starling replied with a shrug. "No, why would I know something about—"  
  
Patience abandoned her former employer's tone, replaced with cold intolerance. "Can it, Starling. We've located Mapp and she's being questioned. I'm on my way there now. If you have any wits about you, you'll haul ass down here, too."  
  
"Why should I?"  
  
"You brought him here." For a minute, it sounded like he wanted to continue, but his voice trailed off inconclusively.  
  
"How can that be, Mr. Pearsall? I haven't left the city, remember?" Her casual air surprised her, almost frightened her, but she knew if she stopped to focus that she would lose it. "So you're holding Ardelia on the word of a pimply teenager. Brilliant. Fucking-A brilliant. What I would like to know is how you got this phone number."  
  
"We have some rather incriminating evidence, Starling. It just happens that that woman is your closest friend, that we know of, and that her car is missing. Funny enough, she was found in your car, heading out of town."  
  
Pearsall spoke arrogantly, as though he was sitting in the back seat. There wasn't too much he could be certain of right now, even if his assumptions were accurate. It was a blatantly open and shut case, but the longer she distracted him, the better. "That still doesn't answer how you got this number," she observed.  
  
"I am a government official, Starling. You do the math. Why do you suddenly need a cell? Was ours not up to standard?"  
  
Her eyes narrowed at his poorly portrayed ignorance. In response, Dr. Lecter hummed in amusement, his gaze intent on her. She did not look back, blazing eyes intent on the country road before them, the Toyota continuing at its racy speed. Truthfully, she had never classified herself as an aggressive driver, but the conversation seemed to fuel her adrenaline. Though they were still undecided on a destination, it was imperative to put as much space as possible between themselves and Washington. Absently, her mind forewarned that they would need to switch vehicles soon. This one had done its purpose, but would become a threat to them in time.  
  
"I suppose the thought of someone wanting to hold a conversation with someone else without the entire fucking Bureau listening is inconceivable," she sneered bitterly.  
  
"Enough of that," Pearsall replied dismissively, making her nerves fluster at his evasiveness. "What I want to know is where you are—especially now that Lecter has been sighed—and why we located Mapp in your car, not hers."  
  
"Because mine has better mileage?"  
  
"Starling!" impatience rasped at his tone. "This is your career, your life in the balance. If any part of you…" With a sharply brusque in take of air, he trailed off, losing his words, or his train of thought. "Your job is one thing…if—"  
  
"Is that concern I hear, Mr. Pearsall?" she gasped in mock astonishment. "Well, I suppose there is a first for everything."  
  
Another breath, each sinking further in defeat. A smile tickled her mouth, but she swallowed it. When he began speaking again, it was scalded and hurt. The steel tone he had exhibited that clearly established his nonnegotiable position during their last meeting had vanished. "I don't know what happened to you—"  
  
"That's rich!" Starling scoffed in disbelief. "Of course, of course. How profound! It wasn't one thing, Mr. Pearsall…it was several thousand things. You happened, Paul Krendler happened. You and everyone else in god-fucking-damned Bureau happened. And hell, that's just recent news. Go back ten years, when Hannibal Lecter happened." Though she was tempted to gaze over and determine her companion's response to the bitter statement, she was too engorged in argument to pause, or consider the merit her words. "I don't have to explain myself to you."  
  
Never before had she envisioned herself in this position. Stories of good- agents-gone-bad had haunted the tainted halls of Quantico for as long as she could remember. It was the meter-stick, the measurement and guideline for new recruits to refer to in advice of what not to do. With some perverse pride, Starling speculated her rapidly developing mark would soon be unsurpassable. Falling in love with the monster of all monsters, and consensually—well, mostly—running off with him while ensuring her formal discharge from her hazardous occupation.  
  
She hoped vainly that Pearsall would stoop to actually fire her with some normality.  
  
The helplessness had not vacated her former boss's tone. "You know and understand then," he said slowly, as though speaking to a detrimental child, "what will happen of we find you?"  
  
"Aren't you talking big?" she retorted dryly, unresponsive to his aloofness. "For all you know, Mr. Pearsall, I might be at the fucking grocery store."  
  
"I don't think so," he disagreed. "Not with a recent Lecter sighting and Mapp's car missing. Not with her in your car and you not at home, nor work, or the gym, or any of the places they've checked. Your location doesn't have as much ambiguity that you might think. After all, Starling, you did, just a few hours ago, tell me how very not sorry you were for your previous actions, for communicating and conspiring to elope with—"  
  
"Conspiring to elope," she barked back in a humorless chuckle. "So it's elope now, is it? Is that what you're going to tell the Tattler? One of many things I'm not going to miss, Mr. Pearsall, is your tendency to exaggerate facts and act on assumptions."  
  
Another breathy sigh. "Starling…I'm saying this as a friend," he stressed. The end of the conversation was in sight, as was the last of his surprisingly endurable patience. By this time, she figured he knew better than to scream threats at the top of his lungs. Pearsall was educated and experienced enough to recognize that such attempts intimidation were fruitless and a waste of time. And—perhaps—in his own perverse way, he did care about her. Cared in that same, superior though almost fatherly way in which she associated Jack Crawford. "There's still time for you to come back. I will see—"  
  
A flash of familiarity rushed through her, and her stomach wrenched into a knot. "Save it," she snapped. "I'm tired of listening to you, I've been goddamned tired for ten years. It's over, Clint. I'm out and I'm never going back."  
  
Free…as a bird…  
  
The breech in etiquette she surpassed in addressing him by his given title perhaps severed him more than the words did. Starling knew this from past experience. Once, long ago, she did the same in the presence of Jack Crawford, and while he was collected enough not to react visibly, she could tell the gravity of her argument had affectively leaked through.  
  
Krendler was an exception. Though she rarely used his first name, she had on more than one occasion, especially in incidents where he continuously proved himself not a gentleman.  
  
When Pearsall had regained himself, she heard him clear his throat, again adapting the frontage of a professional. "We will find you," he said firmly. "Make no mistake."  
  
A reply recoiled on her tongue, aching for release. Starling didn't know whether to cackle or groan at the predictability. However, before any reaction could seep through, she was calmed by a soft touch at her wrist, instantaneously deactivating her soaring tension. In the heat of the moment, reveling in the last words she ever intended to speak to her former boss, she had nearly forgotten the dangerous presence reclining in ever- seductive silence to her right.  
  
"Please, Clarice," he murmured, smoothly snatching the phone from her grasp before she could voice her approval or opposition. "Allow me." Sending her a subtle wink before she forced her eyes back to the road, he raised it to his ear, and said conversationally, "Yes, hello, Mr. Pearsall. I've heard much about you." Humming echoed through the extension, though she couldn't make out what was said. It was high-pitched and angry—more like the man she knew. Breaking into the stream of usual threats that undoubtedly spurted from left to right, Dr. Lecter's leisure response was nothing more than a mere purr of amusement. "Quite enough of that. I do afraid I'm rather pressed for time. No, no…I just wanted to wish you happy hunting. Yes. I'm going to hang up now, Clint. May I call you Clint? Now, now…no need for that. I'll keep that in mind. Ciao."  
  
The call was swiftly cut and he handed the phone back to Starling, who curled it absently in her fingers at the wheel. For long minutes, neither spoke, resting in companionable silence. Feelings of renewed liberation stirred within her. So that was it. It was really behind her now. No going back.  
  
A long sigh escaped her lips. It trembled a bit against the silent air.  
  
"Are you all right, Clarice?"  
  
Starling didn't answer immediately, her eyes locked on the road before them. A pair of headlights flashed in the distance, duly with their brights on, passing as she processed her answer. Was she all right? Perhaps for the first time, she saw the future without trepidation or fear. The loom of impending danger did not threaten her. Even if they were captured…  
  
Soon, they would pass through a small town. The car needed a fill up and she could use some caffeine refreshment.  
  
"Clarice?"  
  
"I'm fine," she said simply. There was no need for elaboration or reasoning. It tainted her tone. "I'm fine and then some." With a smile, a good, genuine smile, she glanced over to him, her eyes shining.  
  
Then the phone started ringing again. Emitting an aggravated sigh, she irately flipped her wrist to examine the return number, coaxing the sigh to a low rumbling growl. Surging irritation disturbed her newfound peace, and in minor retaliation, she furiously rolled down the window and chucked the device into the night; eyes objectively studying the rearview mirror as sparks skidded and danced across the pavement.  
  
Collecting herself, calming flaring nerves, Starling didn't bother to hazard a glance to Dr. Lecter until she had control over her reactions. When their eyes met, she felt herself flush with impatience. A line severed, a connection gone. Now they were alone. Truly alone. Just them. While it seemed the moment should be significant, she was surprised to discover the lack of a telling bolt from the blue. In a sense, it seemed only like a prolonged homecoming.  
  
Then she was rushed with a wave of foolishness, followed immediately by remorse. To consider the long path it took to reach this pivotal point in their relationship. How many wasted years, how many repeated heartaches. He was the one foundation in her life, the aspect that never changed. While her world collapsed around her, he remained the same, offering his familiar support, offering forgiveness he was not supposed to have, showing more compassion than anyone she had known.  
  
She had said awful things to him, things intended to scathe and burn. And while she still nursed wounds from the deep cuts of the Baltimore days, her verbal onslaught was more hurtful, for it attacked the advantage of exposed feelings, using them to make things right with her.  
  
Over and over again…  
  
As she processed these thoughts, questioning her line of sensibility, racked with self-doubt, Dr. Lecter reached for her right hand that rested ineffectually on the steering wheel, caressing it with his lips as she drew in a sharp breath. "Forget it, Clarice," he dismissed, nuzzling her palm before delicately returning it to the wheel.  
  
Silence again. Starling was become achingly aware of a sharp pain attacking her lower abdomen, honing with each deep breath. Her body was tense; both in the after-affects of her toss with Pearsall, quivering with wonderful release that still managed to intimidate her on a level, and the subtle though shattering way Dr. Lecter managed to increase her pulse-rate and make her shiver with anticipation. Perhaps she had been sitting up too long. Soon she would relinquish driving duties, perchance when they stopped for gas and changed vehicles.  
  
She wanted rest—having neglected a good night's sleep for the past several weeks.  
  
That was a given; she wanted something else, too.  
  
Mhmm…  
  
That she put aside, blinking tired eyes as she collected her thoughts. With a weary nod, she glanced to him briefly, as though just registering he spoke, before whispering through half-parted lips, "I can't."  
  
To that he had no reply. Starling would heal in her own time for such lengthy negligence. There was nothing anyone could say now to withdraw her dry remorse. Thus, they drove, lacking the need for words, and settling instead into a comfortable silence.  
  
* * * 


	10. Corruption

A/N: Last chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
"Federal Agent, Clarice Starling, formerly listed as missing, has surfaced—"  
  
"Reports confirm that Special Agent Starling has fled—"  
  
"Former Agent Ardelia Mapp, now being held in—"  
  
"Ten year veteran of the Bureau, Clarice Starling, has reportedly disappeared with lethal madman Han—"  
  
Click.  
  
The air fell to silence, and in response, Starling stirred a bit in her sleep. She was not a customarily sound sleeper when it came to automobiles, having adapted to coincide with pesky stakeouts and other occupational requirements. Though she had grown used to it over the years, her body never fully adjusted. Special precautions were instituted now that Pearsall was completely up to speed. Two hours before, they had abandoned the Toyota in the parking lot of a desolate office complex in some small, nameless town. Dr. Lecter had also switched license plates and insisted that she relinquish driving duty. There, they had continued speedily in the opposite direction. The trail they were leaving now would eventually lead their pursuers north. They had lost an hour, but would benefit in the long run.  
  
("On the road again…")  
  
Sleep seemed impossible, and she had nearly laughed when Dr. Lecter made the suggestion. However, Starling found herself beyond fatigued once her motor abilities were no longer required to function. Merely reclining, not asked to remain alert, seemed to take it out of her. She had found sleep in short, easy minutes.  
  
That was not to say her slumber went undisturbed. Occasionally she felt the shine of headlights from oncoming cars, stirred at the gentle hum of the radio that now played in place of dialogue, or jerked to temporary consciousness when the car met with a bump on the road. To his credit, Dr. Lecter did his absolute best to proceed over the rough pavement with utmost care, but their hurry offered little room for such consideration.  
  
Still, whenever she started to awake, she felt a calm, reassuring touch at her shoulder, encouraging her to rest. Coaxing her back to sleep.  
  
When the radio at last snapped off, every available station preoccupied with reports on their getaway, Starling awoke and did not retract back to her slumber. Her eyes remained closed and she enjoyed a time of rest, simply listening to the car hum and the low, tempered breathing of the man who now assumed control of the wheel.  
  
Her face tickled with a grin that she could not school. Without opening her eyes, she felt his gaze drift in her direction.  
  
"Hmmm," Dr. Lecter murmured thoughtfully, coaxing her eyes open briefly. "Now that is a very telling smile, Clarice. I suspect you are not yet wrought with doubt?"  
  
"Very funny." The response was second nature, as though the days of doubt were far behind her and not only cold a few hours. However, it was authentic, flexing in newfound liberty.  
  
She knew he heard this when a smile tugged at his lips. "Your good spirits means the lambs did not scream, I assume?"  
  
Starling stretched in response to his voice, fighting off a yawn. With a weary nod, she sat up properly, reaching to rub her eyes. "No screaming lambs."  
  
"What about former employers?"  
  
"Maybe one or two of those."  
  
The doctor rumbled lightly in mirth. "Was the coverage bothering you?"  
  
"No. I just worry about Ardelia." She sighed and leaned back, hands falling limply to her lap, head reclining a fraction. "After everything she did for me…for you, too."  
  
He nodded his understanding but did not speak.  
  
"She deserves better than that," Starling decided inconclusively.  
  
"Would you prefer we go back, Clarice?"  
  
"No." The reply came so quickly, so naturally that she recognized with propinquity the material of her loyalties. Even though the question was rhetorical, she had to chew a bit on her answer. It meant many things, and ironically, nothing pertaining to her friend. She did not doubt her love for Mapp, but times had changed. Simply thinking of retreating for any purpose made her shudder. However, she decided not to brew. Though she had no way of knowing how much they would penalize her friend for her part in this chaotic escapade, aiding and abetting didn't ride well with bureaucrats, especially if that felon was Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  
  
"Where are we?" Starling asked, driving her thoughts away.  
  
"We crossed into North Carolina not too long ago."  
  
She nodded, stretching again with another yawn. The urge was upon her to succumb to sleep but she wanted to talk. Since her transcend to euphoria in speaking to Pearsall, she and Dr. Lecter had rested in considerable silence. It seemed time for more discussion.  
  
"You're tired, aren't you?" she asked innocently.  
  
"Don't fret, Clarice. We will be stopping soon," he assured her. "Go back to sleep, if you like."  
  
"Are you suggesting I won't sleep when we stop?"  
  
That coaxed his eyes to her briefly and they blazed in scrutiny. "Hmmm. Was that a subtle innuendo or should I refrain from taking the bait?"  
  
"You tell me."  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned but turned his gaze back to the road. "Sleep when you want to then," he suggested with deceptive nonchalance. Starling was the wiser, clearly seeing the dance of his devilish pupils as they remained intently focused ahead.  
  
"Where will we stop?"  
  
"Somewhere boorish, undoubtedly," he replied. "I really do detest chain motels, despite their convenience."  
  
"I rather doubt you'll opt for a Super 8," Starling replied with a chuckle. "There's bound to be a Ho-Jo's somewhere."  
  
"How very trite."  
  
"Work with what you're given," she retorted with a simple shrug.  
  
"Old sentiment?"  
  
"Family motto."  
  
"Ah." Smiling to himself, Dr. Lecter's head tilted a fraction, even as his eyes remained firmly transfixed on the road ahead. "How charming."  
  
A few minutes of silence followed. Soft. Companionable. Starling drew in a few ragged breaths as her mind began to wander. The proximity of their imminent stop for the evening gave her interesting food for thought, despite her casual jesting.  
  
The evening encompassed and cocooned.  
  
When Dr. Lecter spoke again, it drew her away from some distant pivotal point. She fought the urge to stretch again as it only seemed to increase her fatigue.  
  
"When you were speaking to Clint," he said, "you mentioned that I was one of the calamities that 'happened' to you." It wasn't a question, or a plea for reassurance, or even the lure for the antidote to a bruised ego. Rather, it was merely a recapitulation. A reminder of her own words. Starling held her breath and waited a minute for the inevitable why, but it never came.  
  
"Yes," she agreed a confused beat later. He only nodded encouragement. "I didn't mean it negatively…I know it sounded that way."  
  
"Apologies are not in order, Clarice. I suffered no injured esteem."  
  
"Then why bring it up at all?"  
  
"Curiosity. I want to know if our meeting was such a calamity."  
  
Starling's eyes narrowed. "That's a loaded question."  
  
"Whatever isn't, these days?"  
  
She sighed emphatically, leaning back into the seat. "For who, Dr. Lecter? Me or you? For you, you got a hell of a bargain. A ticket out of—"  
  
"That is irrelevant, Clarice."  
  
"I know." Aggravation had climbed into her throat and she made no attempt to disguise it. "Are you asking if life would be easier for either one of us had we never met?"  
  
"No. I know the answer to that," Dr. Lecter replied lowly.  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"I suppose I want to know if you would have rejected the assignment, knowing what you do now."  
  
The first thing that came to her mind surprised her for the blatant honesty. Starling had always thought, in the grand scheme of things, that life would be generally simpler had she never met Dr. Lecter. So much anguish and torment could have been avoided. So much grief from her superiors, those who hurt her because they were frightened of her. Of her strength and her failure to break. At her ability to look such a monster and walk away, at her prudence in tolerating them and surviving. But sitting here beside him, in this car they had to borrow from some tired workaholic, know everything…  
  
Knowing everything included knowing what she understood about corruption and bureaucrats and the FBI. What she could tell from the likes of good and evil, the evil within the good, and the morality within the condemned.  
  
"No, Dr. Lecter," she replied firmly. "I wouldn't change it for anything."  
  
By his face, she was allowed to read the intense pleasure her words bore, perhaps with additional curiosity, but he took his time to savor its taste on his own merit. It was an answer he hadn't anticipated, one she hadn't realized she was prepared for.  
  
"Why?" he asked inexorably, once he had clamped down his own reaction.  
  
"Because had I not known you, I would've remained a stupid, naïve trainee all my life. I wouldn't have seen what I saw," Starling answered with deceiving agility and ease. "Because knowing you has helped me to know me."  
  
His eyes flickered significantly once more but he forced his response aside, barking out another question. "What about what I did to you, Clarice? Robbing you of your youth, flavoring you with cynicism and bitterness, ensuring your permanent stature with the Tattler and all media hounds, subjecting you too soon to this world of—"  
  
"Corruption, Doctor? Let me choose my corruption."  
  
"And what do you choose?"  
  
"Isn't it obvious?"  
  
That indistinct comment finally coaxed a wry look, flashing with impatience, followed by amusement. A taut smile spread athwart his lips. "Former Agent Starling, I believe you have adapted far too well."  
  
"To what?"  
  
"To being as wonderfully elusive as I am."  
  
She snickered. "Well…if you can't take it, don't dish it out."  
  
"Oh contraire," Dr. Lecter replied with enthusiasm, "I find it most appetizing. Please continue. Enchant me."  
  
His words echoed with aching familiarity, his voice lowering to natural seduction. Starling was forced to pause and catch her breath, noting somewhat dryly that it was most likely his intention to throw her off balance. Battling with him when the stakes were this wonderfully inconsequential was so divergent to every other conversation they had held, when the tension built for the wrong reasons and she feared the approach of a slip-up that could cost her everything. And while she knew very well that those days were not over simply with this change of sides, there was some instinctive satisfaction. The promise that no matter what, things would work out right from now on.  
  
It was most likely a foolish, romantic jest. Starling did not and would never believe in 'happy ever after.'  
  
"Enchant you with what?" she sneered mockingly.  
  
Though subtle, her eyes caught Dr. Lecter's right wrist at the wheel, straining with effort and impatience. Despite his repulse for repeating himself, or conceding anything with such ease, his own faint tension was the victor. "Choosing your corruption?" he growled through gritted teeth. "And what happened to you to bring you here."  
  
"Like I said, Doctor. You happened. You can't reduce yourself to a set of influences. Neither can I."  
  
"And your corruption?"  
  
A sly retort coiled and froze on her tongue, her mouth suddenly aching with the remnants of his kiss, so painfully brief before Pearsall's untimely interruption. Subconsciously, her tongue darted out to taste her upper lip. "I think I'll stick to being elusive for now," she decided, releasing a quivering breath. "Give you more of a taste of your own medicine."  
  
"How cruel!" Feigned disappointment masked satisfaction. Whatever he needed to know he knew, simply from her tone. Even still, she had no doubt that he would make her speak the rest before the night was over. "Clarice, you have become a very adept tormentor. Did it ever occur to you that your consistent battle with your chosen occupation could have been accredited to a conflict of interests?"  
  
"I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."  
  
"I would never insult your character."  
  
"What about that 'hustling rube' comment?"  
  
Dr. Lecter grinned. "Please, Clarice, let's focus on the present. If we continuously travel through these oddly convenient wrinkles in time, we will never get anywhere." In spite of his words, she could tell he was pleased, encouraged, by her dexterity in holding something for so long.  
  
"Why should I? You never do."  
  
She contorted in private triumph when he succumbed to light chuckles. "I'll have to decide how my arrogance flavors you," he said thoughtfully. "Coated along with cynicism and that indeterminate corruption."  
  
That lent her pause for consideration. Her brow furrowed in thought and she leaned back once more, gnawing absently on her lower lip. "I suppose you've grown tired of bitterness," she said. "You've seen a lot of that."  
  
Dr. Lecter gave her a slow, meaningful look, not as long as he would like, given the road before him. Though she sensed an onslaught of reprimands were collecting on his tongue, the gaze alone was enough to assure her of her place, and scold her for suggesting otherwise.  
  
However, when he started to speak, she was surprised to hear indifference and lack of lecture. It was a degree lighter. He had read her understanding. "Falsified acrimony does wear my patience, yes," he agreed slowly. "People founded in today's society have such tedious, menial problems that submerge into resentment much too prematurely. Granted, there are exceptions here and there, but very few." He glanced to her again, but briefly. "I know what you have seen, Clarice, and what you have willingly endured time and time again. Your animosity is long overdue, if anything."  
  
"It's a bitch to be optimistic when you're a pessimist at heart," she sighed, leaning her head onto her right arm that perched against the door.  
  
He chuckled lightly. "You do it so well."  
  
"Glad you think so."  
  
"Hmmm…" Dr. Lecter hummed. "Why?"  
  
"Because yours is the only opinion that matters to me."  
  
Again he smiled. Starling loved it when he smiled, unable to drink in enough. Unlike the exchanges of their past, with smiles ringing of smug superiority—or even the more recent past—covered in jaded sadness, the smiles she received now were merely kind and understanding. It was frightening on a level, to think a man as notoriously monstrous as he was could demonstrate both the good and the bad faithfully to either extreme, but she had long given up trying to be horrified. The truth was, there were no wholly moral or immoral people in the world. Sooner or later, everyone had to choose their corruption.  
  
"It seems we're at a crossroads, Clarice," he decided a minute later.  
  
"Meeting in the middle?"  
  
"Something like that."  
  
She smirked. "It's never something with you, Doctor."  
  
"Why do you call me that?"  
  
The question surprised her for the ostensible spontaneity, sounding almost hurt that they weren't beyond the formalities. Likewise, it made her frown in recognition. Her mind jumbled into muddied illogicalities. "I don't know," she replied after a minute. "I didn't know I was invited to call you anything else."  
  
"Ah." With this he seemed satisfied and appeared to dismiss the matter entire. Confused, she straightened again and her frown creased in concentration. It only lasted a minute, however, and he started speaking as though the break had not occurred. "Ten years is a long time, Clarice."  
  
"If you want me to call you by your first name, just say it." She hadn't meant to sound indignant, but made no attempt to retract. Apologizing for herself was a futile effort; she knew he liked her just the way she was, and preferred the taste of her raw and principle thoughts, sterilized without consideration or censors.  
  
Indeed, his amusement seemed to amplify, eyes sparkling even as they remained steadfast on the road. Starling looked ahead as she waited for his reply, noting with some approaching excitement that the lights of the next town were now in sight. A small, inconspicuous place, hopefully equipped with a Howard Johnson's, lest they succumb to a selection of less breeding. "Yes," he admitted finally. "Use my given name from now on, if you will."  
  
"I'll try to remember."  
  
"Please do." He paused briefly to flash her a smile, this one mischievous, though still sincere. "Not that I don't approve of your courtesy, Clarice, especially after all these years."  
  
"Too formal for you, eh?"  
  
"I believe we are beyond the status of teacher and pupil."  
  
"Thank God."  
  
Dr. Lecter smirked and glanced to her concisely again. "Though that is not to say I am finished with all those superb delights that come with it."  
  
"No! Of course not," she agreed, her tone half mocking and fond.  
  
"Clarice?"  
  
She took a breath, knowing it was a test, feeling awkward even if it was what he wanted. A decade-long habit was a tough one to break, not because of the implication as much as the routine. "Hannibal?" Once the name rolled off her tongue, her reservation vanished. It sounded natural to her. Adult—matured past the days of her schooling, past the Bureau. Grown-up. Fly fly fly, little Starling.  
  
"Would you like to stop for the evening?"  
  
"Stop what? The conversation or the vehicle?"  
  
He grinned. "Either or both."  
  
"Ho-Jo's?"  
  
"Trite, but as you so dotingly quipped, 'work with what you're given.'"  
  
Starling chuckled. "Can't let go of the family motto."  
  
"Which family?"  
  
"My mother's cousin. She had a million sayings."  
  
Dr. Lecter considered as he pulled the car into the hotel parking lot. Ashville was a small town and it appeared that there were only a few guests. "Then it couldn't have been the family motto," he observed. "If—"  
  
"Doc…Hannibal?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"  
  
At that, his brows arched significantly. "Oh? What would you prefer?"  
  
The car had stopped, but she didn't notice; too preoccupied with piecing together a reply. When it proved a fruitless effort, especially recovering from her catnap, she merely shrugged and reached for the handle. "I think I'd need of an example of my alternatives." Starling opened the door and wiggled out of the seat, enjoying the feel of the night air against her skin, and stretched her legs that were tired from the long ride. "Coming?" she asked, peering in before slamming the door shut.  
  
To himself, in the sudden vacant silence of the car, he muttered, "Wouldn't miss it for the world." Then, with reticent slowness, he opened the door and rose to his feet.  
  
In the course of the years spent on various field assignments and stakeouts, Starling liked to think of herself as a connoisseur of the typical chain motel. She had seen them all, but usually yielded to those of shoddier reputation to coincide with saving money. Howard Johnson's was far from her ideal bread and breakfast, but it was a nice break. A variation.  
  
All more besides, it wasn't as conspicuous as their other options. Starling suspected Pearsall would hit the more prestigious inns to concur with the doctor's tastes, and resort to the other extreme once the results came back negative. In her experience, the man never found a medium. It was one or the other.  
  
The clerk at the front desk appeared tired and absent. Starling bit her lip and wondered for a minute if she should go back for her purse, but declined when she saw Dr. Lecter's eyes. He was smiling softly, as though reading her thoughts, before joining her at the front desk. It was strange and liberating—sharing enough with this man to have her domestic peculiarities met in conventional fashions, but keeping enough to herself and always have him guessing.  
  
"How may I help you?" the clerk asked wearily, doing his best to be responsive and friendly.  
  
"One room, please."  
  
"Standard, deluxe, or suite?"  
  
Acts of whimsy. Starling bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, as she guessed his preference immediately. Despite their surroundings, Dr. Lecter would always find an out to satisfy his various penchants.  
  
Suites were one hundred forty a night. The price made her brows perk, but it didn't seem to surprise or offend the doctor. That was something else to grow accustomed to. Financial security. She puffed out a breath and endured his gaze of amused scrutiny for a brief minute before redirecting his attention to the kid in front of them.  
  
"Will you be needing a wake-up call?"  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled thinly. "I don't believe so."  
  
For Starling, time slowed, or sped up, or was lost altogether. On some level, she expected this period of relative serenity to be wracked with guilt or second thoughts, but she had spent years beating herself up over the very same issues. And, all things considered, there wasn't anything to regret. She had thought this through over and over again, always arriving at the same conclusion. There wasn't anywhere else she wanted to be, anyone else she wanted to be with. Her over-worked, fatigued conscience waited for the reprimand, but it never came.  
  
In these early stages, she suspected such thoughts were normal. After all, it was only this morning that she awoke, certain that she was out of a job and facing time in the local correctional facility.  
  
"It's been a long day," she muttered as Dr. Lecter opened the door to their room for her.  
  
"Stressful?"  
  
"To the max."  
  
The door swung open, but she didn't look in. They stood in the hallway for a minute, companionable, as though this margin was the final threshold.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
It was a genuine inquiry for her well being, layered with whatever concern he would allow her to hear. Starling didn't know what she found more atypical—the constant affirmation that the beauty of the beast outweighed the monstrosity, or the idea that someone would actually ask how she was feeling and mean it. Either way, she drank it in, reveling in its taste.  
  
She was acting as elusive as she sounded. That was the second time he had asked that tonight.  
  
"I'm better than all right," Starling replied with confidence, glancing inward briefly, not really seeing and making no move to step inside. "Though I don't see what's wrong with this hotel. I see nothing trite."  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled and emitted a long sigh, as though releasing his own subtle tension. "Give it time, Clarice," he said. "You simply don't know what you have been missing."  
  
That lent her pause, not so much for the words as much as the implication. While Starling knew many of her tastes would elevate, she wanted to hang on to some of the old life, grasp that fundamental essence that had assisted her through ten years of hostility. Whether it be preferences in hotels, music, food, clothing…she had every intention of keeping herself just as she was. "I don't want you to pamper me into someone I'm not." Not that she thought he would, but the point seemed necessary. Important.  
  
The doctor's eyes lost their mischievous dance, falling to seriousness. Where she expected him to be angry, he was not. Instead, she saw that this was important to him as well. "I wouldn't stand for it," he said softly. "I believe you know that."  
  
Starling let out a breath and freed her apprehension. "I do. It just needed to be said."  
  
"Indeed." He motioned to the open door. "After you, my dear."  
  
A beat passed before she could tear her eyes from his, finally giving the room that awaited them her full attention. Despite the circumstances, it was the nicest she had seen of the mass-hotel chain productions. "Not so bad," she said again, finally crossing the doorsill.  
  
Dr. Lecter murmured lowly in his throat. "Such lengths are necessary," he observed, nearly to himself, almost chanting in inward reassurance of his own convictions. "And granted, I suppose the conditions could be considerably worse."  
  
"How so?"  
  
He glanced at her cynically. "Really, Clarice." The light mock of appall made her want to snicker, but she refrained.  
  
Starling knew he wasn't used to being ignored, nor had his voice or brutal gaze ever been received lightly, without visible reaction. Thus she took some pleasure in regarding him with little surface interest. "You know…" she said thoughtfully. "We probably should've just slept in the car." The words left her without deliberation. Making a generalization—a hotel stop would render their steps that much easier to trace, even with the added precaution.  
  
That provoked a small smile, but she didn't see it; her back was to him. "What would the benefit be in that?" he asked.  
  
Starling paused to process the implications, slowly turning to face him. She scolded herself for the need to catch up, but she wasn't accustomed to inducing such blatant insinuations without considering. Especially directed to him. Though this phase of their relationship was long overdue, she supposed growing familiar with it would take time.  
  
Then, without any grand understanding, she realized the fluency was already there, hidden. Perhaps the awkward phase had passed, but she didn't recall there ever being one. The newness in itself was homely, and that was what surprised her.  
  
The air hung over them thinly. Blinking, she cleared her throat and bit her lip. "So, Hannibal…"  
  
"Clarice?"  
  
"You said in the car that we were at a crossroads." She smiled lightly to herself in reverence at the growing ability to change the subject with increasing vigor. When he smirked in amusement, she was surprised to see the first glimmers of impatience flashing behind his eyes. The sight forced her to catch her breath.  
  
"Do you fear progression, Former Agent Starling?" The question seemed serious, even if his tone was light-hearted. Still, she didn't want to answer it. She was terrified of progression, lest she would have found herself here long ago.  
  
"You never did tell me what that meant," she replied faintly.  
  
"Hmmm…" Dr. Lecter appeared to consider her a minute, the dancing sparks in his eyes darkening in intensity. "I do believe I have had a negative influence over you."  
  
"Nah…really?" Then, curiously, she added, "What?"  
  
"You seem to have espoused my tendency to talk too much."  
  
"Great," Starling muttered with a poorly faked eye roll. The tease in her voice was easy to hear, and she knew she wouldn't have been able to hide it in any circumstance. "It's only been a few hours and you're rubbing off on me already."  
  
"Are you disappointed?" Dr. Lecter took a step forward, and so did she. Any lingering doubt was melting away.  
  
"Disappointed?" she repeated with arched brows. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep up, which should have unsettled her, but she barely registered the notion. Her mind flushed, attempting to piece together a witty retort, but Starling realized with little resignation that she was no longer in the mood to tease or banter. Nor, she sensed, was he. The fatigue that had plagued her a few short minutes ago had vanished. If there was any foreboding, she didn't feel it. "No," she continued finally. "I'm not disappointed."  
  
"No regrets?"  
  
Starling smiled and her eyes narrowed. "You seem to need constant reassurance of that."  
  
"A man can't be too cautious," he replied simply. "I never want you to coil in lament over the decisions you make now. Life is too short to be twisted with resentment."  
  
As if coached, she involuntarily referred again to her conscience, that which had acted as her beacon for so many wasted years. Her light. Her guidance. Her prison. Any remaining loyalties scratched to find some logicality for her transformation, but there was nothing. An autumn breeze stirring through her, but the leaves on the trees were dead. Spouts remained for next summer's growth, for the new beginning that was far behind schedule.  
  
"No regrets," Starling decided. "I've beat myself up about this for a decade. And while my reckoning seemed rational, I was never satisfied."  
  
"Are you satisfied now?"  
  
She bit her lip. "There isn't anywhere else I'd rather be."  
  
"But are you satisfied?"  
  
Time seemed to suspend briefly as she considered. Starling knew her answer, held onto it, but likewise understood that its release meant the crossing of that final boundary. For a split second, she reviewed the steps that had brought her here, one last time. Again, she was shaken to think how long it took her to make it. How many years she had wasted, squandering herself away for nothing.  
  
But that didn't matter now.  
  
"Yes," she said at last, not stopping to consider. For one lifetime, she had thought enough.  
  
The single declaration broke his control. She saw it snap, his eyes flickering almost dangerously. For a minute, he seemed to struggle to gain it back, conceding the next instant; control finally succumbing to a more powerful whim. His hands leapt from his sides and captured her head, bringing her mouth to his. There she tasted the rest of her promised kiss from the car, outlined with ten years of repressed zeal. For brutal seconds they battled, challenging the other with whatever fury was left to this means to an end. His teeth nipped at her provocatively, biting once, releasing any similar frustration before vehemence dwindled and left only fervor. Her arms remained immobile at her sides, every ounce of strength focused on matching his fire with her own. Revelations soared and conquered.  
  
The night, like many to come, swirled in a sea of colors and ambiance. A slow escalation followed by a dive. Swoop. Perfect synchronization. Swoop. The thrill of Heaven and Hell, war and peace. To make a slow steady harvest, again and again. Captured in his eyes, melting in his kiss losing herself to sensation; engulfed, surrounded. Whole.  
  
Reassurance. Choosing her corruption. Clarice Starling was a deep roller, but one of her parents was not.  
  
  
  
FIN 


End file.
